


Absolute Horizon

by anna_amuse



Series: Absolute Horizon [2]
Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Action/Adventure, Character Study, F/M, M/M, Originally Posted Elsewhere, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-09
Updated: 2011-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-15 21:32:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 117,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anna_amuse/pseuds/anna_amuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first five-year mission ended with the most successful Starfleet Bridge crew scattered to the winds. Was it fate? Was it a choice? Or was there a layer to this occurrence which an outside observer could not perceive?<br/>The story is COMPLETE</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Set at the end of the first 5-year mission, this story focuses not only on the Kirk/Spock situation, but also explores where every of the main seven stand at the moment, what brought them to the point where they change their lives so completely. In a way, this story was designed as a desperate attempt to explain the whole collection of discord and estrangement of TMP. That said, Kirk/Spock remained the most important part of this effort, but I have to warn you that mostly their relationship here qualifies as pre-slash.
> 
> This is mostly unbetaed, although slwatson did her best to tidy it up a little.

_In general relativity, an absolute horizon is a boundary in spacetime, defined with respect to the external universe, inside of which events cannot affect an external observer. Light emitted inside the horizon can never reach the observer, and anything that passes through the horizon from the observer's side is never seen again. An absolute horizon forms when a star is ready to collapse into a black hole._

**Prologue**

A blast of thunder split the night, its thick low vibration reaching deep into the core of buildings and beings.

Jim Kirk woke up with a start, sitting bolt upright in his bed. His heart was thumping in his chest. It took him several moments to realize where he was. His apartment, Russian Hill Tower, San Francisco. Not that icebox of a lockup on Tarsus, though there were distinct similarities.

Then, like now, he was alone. And it was raining.

With a groan, Kirk disentangled himself from the blankets, and stood up, his bare feet luxuriating on the smooth cool surface of the floor. In a moment, he would be cold, but right now he was feverish. He walked, rather unsteadily, towards the table and poured a glass of water; drank it in several large gulps, never minding the drops falling to his chest.

Feeling a little better, he refilled his glass and strode over to the large ceiling-to-floor window and gazed at the storm-swept city.

Six, maybe seven knots, he reflected, watching the trees, bent almost to the ground, flattened by the wind. Wind obviously reigned this ball, using the cold water with combat force and lightning to enhance the effect.

There was something savage in this force, which demanded compliance in no uncertain terms and was disinclined to wait for it to be given freely.

Kirk took a small sip of water, watching the power play. There had been no thunderstorm forecasted... what brought on this one? Maybe someone got sloppy at the weather control station. At that thought, he narrowed his eyes; this storm arrived so conveniently, throwing him right back into the embrace of one overly familiar nightmare when he had managed to live an entire week evading it.

It wasn't even a nightmare, so much, as it was a memory. A memory of almost twenty-four years ago that had reoccurred from time to time in the form of a vivid, tangible, colorful dream. That dream hadn't bothered him for years.

But now it haunted him every night for almost four months, ever since Spock had left him standing alone on that Bridge.

Kirk closed his eyes and took another small sip of water. It was completely irrational and yet so completely obvious. Sigmund Freud would have had a field day. The thought made him grimace and open his eyes in time to catch another flash of blinding light cutting the skies open.

He was thirteen; he had just lost his father, and he didn't need to witness numerous people being killed to feel that the world was fading, slipping through his fingers like sand. He didn't need to be thrown into a cell in an empty prison for twenty-eight days without even an overseer for company.

For twenty-eight days, he tried to catch a sound, an echo, anything, which would tell him that there had been living creatures still in the same physical universe with him. He would have been so grateful for a rat or a spider as a neighbor.

For twenty-eight days, he watched the rays of sun scratching their way from one corner of the high ceiling to another.

Nobody knew this. He had never told anyone. They had all assumed that it was the executions that had made such an impact on him. They thought the executions were the hardest part. Compared to witnessing the massacre, solitary confinement must have seemed to most as a relief.

Not to him.

He remembered his utter terror when he heard footsteps on day twenty-nine. He was so afraid he was hallucinating. He sat on the floor, his arms wrapped around his knees, like a live ball of tension. The door opened slowly. He wanted to squeeze his eyes shut, too scared that his mind was playing tricks on him. But he couldn't.

There was a woman standing there. A short red-haired woman in blue Starfleet uniform. She smiled at him, kindly and sadly, and then she spoke and waved for him to come out.

He couldn't take his eyes off of her. If he so much as blinked, she would disappear. But then in the doorway, he turned and looked back at the room where he had spent twenty-eight days alone. And he knew then:

Whenever happened, the next time he would find himself completely alone like that, he would die. Locked up or free, he would die alone.

In his dream, the door opened sometimes on its own volition. He would walk out into the empty corridor, and then into the open, and see no one there, and he would know that there were no other living beings in the entire galaxy. Sometimes, he would hear footsteps passing by without stopping and would beg for them to come back. Sometimes it was Spock who opened the door, instead of the red-haired woman, whose name he had never found out.

He hated when it was Spock behind that door, because those dreams had the worst ending of all. Spock would close the door in his face and walk away without saying a word. And somehow, after that, he would feel more alone than he had ever been before.

Another blast of thunder hit the window. Kirk flinched, then sighed and lifted a hand to massage his stiff neck. It had been a while since he had a good night's sleep, but it didn't bother him. He gazed upon the beautiful ancient city violated by the ruthless storm and felt life all around him. Those lit windows were life, and the sounds of ground cars, the commercial on the roof two buildings away, and the tractor beams seizing the flitter and navigating it to the parking lounge. The city was breathing with life all around him, enjoying its struggle with the storm, almost as if it was an affirmation of its rebellious spirit.

And he was free. He could go anywhere, talk to anyone, do anything. He could return to his office and check the status of the new Security protocols. He could activate the comm and call that woman—what was her name again?—and spend the rest of the night in her company. He could look up a couple of old friends. He could even go to Iowa for a good ride.

He could.

He wouldn't.

That closed door. He knew it would stay closed for the rest of his life and he had to get used to it. He had learned to live with it, hadn't he? He adapted, he was always the one who could adapt to anything. The dream would return, of course, but James T. Kirk, the youngest Admiral in Starfleet, decorated numerous times by Starfleet Command, wanted dead or alive in over a dozen star systems, was not the kind of man who would allow his life to be directed by bad dreams.

This night would pass, as would the others. And the variation that he had seen tonight would fade, replaced by the usual patterns. Somehow he knew that the twist the familiar nightmare had taken tonight was unique and would not come back again.

Footsteps in the corridor. The door opens slowly, and Spock is standing there, distant and silent. As always, he jumps to his feet and rushes to the door. Suddenly the image of Spock vanishes in a blur, and it is Jim Kirk himself who stares back at him from the dark corridor. Two pairs of identical hazel eyes bore into each other across the threshold. And then, the Kirk from the corridor pushes the door closed in the other Kirk's face, leaving him alone. No footsteps, no movement, no nothing.

The world breaks.

Kirk finished his water and turned his back on the window, heading for the bathroom. When he emerged from the shower, the storm had moved away to find a new victim, while the slightly ruffled city smiled a tender greeting to the rising sun.


	2. Prologue

  


**  
_Six months ago_   
**

  


 

"How many of them did you see?" Kirk asked, peering over the podium.

"What does it matter?" the Governor hissed in fear-born anger. "They're all around us."

He shot her a reassuring glance.

"We'll get through this, Inga."

"I don't see how."

"Believe me I've been in far worse situations in my life."

"I can't imagine anything worse than this."

"Well," he intoned, taking aim again, "I'd be happy to tell you all about it," he pulled the trigger; twenty feet away a body slumped to the floor, "but I've never been good in shooting _and_ talking at the same time."

The response blast nearly burnt the hair on the Governor's head, and she ducked lower with a squeak.

"I can't take it anymore!" she whimpered, biting her lips, without knowing it. "We're a peaceful agricultural colony—why would anyone attack us?"

"I don't think they are attacking the colony," Kirk offered, after firing yet again. "Looks like they are solely interested in us."

"In us?" she looked at him wildly. "What would anyone want with us?"

Kirk bit his tongue hard not to swear. He thought about all the numerous occasions he had asked himself that very question. Usually under similar circumstances, dodging hostile fire. What did anyone ever want with them—with him, his ship, the Federation? Sometimes he wondered if the service offered nothing more than constantly being a target.

"Chances are that it's either you or me."

"Why?" she broke between the blasts. "I'm a governor, you're a starship captain. Two important hostages are better than one."

Their cover shook violently from a particularly powerful shot. Kirk retaliated immediately, feeling slightly dazed.

"Yeah, somehow I don't believe they're interested in hostages."

"Tough luck," she muttered, leaning on the remains of the wall in exhaustion. "How long do you think we can hold on?"

"My phaser is almost drained," Kirk replied calmly.

"And you didn't think of bringing an extra battery?"

"Look, you invited us down here for a tea ceremony," he shot another blast, wishing it would carry all of his frustration. "If Spock didn't insist, I wouldn't have brought a phaser along at all."

With renewed sense of guilt and confusion, she stared at his tense figure.

"Spock was a good officer," she offered blandly.

"He's not dead, Inga," Kirk threw back, concentrating on his firing.

"Jim..." she wanted to place a consoling hand on his shoulder, but under the circumstances thought better of it. "We saw how they—"

"He's not dead," Kirk repeated in a tone that clearly prohibited any further objections.

She turned away, staring at the wall through the blurring veil of tears. She felt too young to die. There were still so many things to accomplish. This colony had only now started to blossom. After many years of dedicated laboring, they had finally managed to sustain the colony without regular shipments from Earth, and this year they had created a surplus. And the prognoses were so good...

She was so proud of their accomplishments, so eager to share the results with those who knew exactly how hard it was to survive in the distant regions of space. When the _Enterprise_ had assumed orbit, she was so happy to invite her old friend Jim Kirk planetside, to show him just how much they had achieved. She even offered his crew to spend a shore leave on Talouba. Well, thank goodness, Jim decided on a short reconnaissance visit first. At least, his crew was not endangered. Unlike her own staff that was shot in the assault.

And Commander Spock, Jim's First Officer, who pushed her out of the fire line.

A voice suddenly rang under the high ceiling of the Reception Hall.

"Hold your fire! We want to talk."

Kirk exchanged a perplexed look with the Governor. His lips stretched into thin white lines, as he pressed them together ruthlessly.

The silence that came as a relief for the vast phaser fire was deafening and edgy.

"You must think I'm an idiot," Kirk shouted over the podium.

"On the contrary, Captain Kirk, I believe you are a very smart man. And, as a smart man, you know as well as I do that your phaser's running dry. I don't want you to hurt any more of my men, for believe it or not, I care about them. Now why don't you come out of there so that we could have our little chat in the open?"

"Why don't you let me contact my ship, and then we can chat all you want?"

There was a soft chuckle.

"You must think _I'm_ an idiot, Captain. I have you outgunned twenty to one. I could easily wait you out, but I'd prefer we meet face to face."

"Interesting," Kirk mumbled to himself. Louder, he sent, "Why? Who the hell are you?"

"Manners, Captain," the invisible opponent replied silkily. "Have you lost all consideration while living in outer space? Or have the aliens corrupted you?"

"In what way?" Kirk asked, stalling for time. The attack was swift and heady, catching them entirely by surprise and giving them no chance to call for help. But he and Spock were overdue for a check-in call. When neither of them answered, the _Enterprise_ must realize something was wrong. Those walls they were using for cover, however. Inga said they were pure trimonium. Impenetrable by sensors.

"Come into the open, Captain. I'll explain."

"All right, I'm coming," he declared suddenly.

"Jim, what are you doing?" the Governor whispered fearfully. "They'll shoot you on sight!"

"Fine. But let the lovely Governor Olofsson come out as well. We won't hurt either of you. Yet."

"Jim!" she exclaimed desperately, as he straightened up.

He smiled at her and offered her a hand. "We don't have a choice, Inga. Trust me. Come on."

She eyed him anxiously, but let her trembling hand slide into his open palm. Gently, he lifted her to her feet. Her limbs were determined to disobey, but Jim's will seemed to prevail, as he led her, step by step, into the center of the hall. There was no one there to meet them.

"Well, we're here," Kirk said into the empty space. "Show yourself before killing us, would you?"

The voice came from an undetermined direction.

"No one has to die before hearing his sentence, Captain. The Governor here knows her crimes very well. As for you, your greatest transgression was..."

But what it was, Kirk never found out. The voice continued to speak to him, but he couldn't hear a word. The time seemed to stretch indefinitely; strange buzzing was filling his ears.

And then, there was an electrical jolt under his skull, like a lightning bolt burning out his eyes from the inside.

 _Get down!_

In a split second, he whirled around and launched himself at the Governor. They fell down together in one rapid motion, and, before they hit the floor, their world exploded.

The walls came falling down, blown apart by a violent blast, sending pieces and fragments all over them, knocking the armed men off their feet. Before the last pieces of stone were down, the room, or what was left of it, was swept by stunning rays, which carefully avoided the center.

Still covering the Governor with his body as best he could, Kirk raised his head, trying to see through vast clouds of stone dust. Hot waves of relief washed over him, as he heard the familiar voice giving orders.

"Take them to the detention area, engage level five security protocols."

"Aye, sir!"

"Captain?" the same voice called in his direction, sounding slightly softer. "Captain Kirk? Governor?"

"Here, Spock," coughing, he rose to his feet and nearly bumped into his First Officer.

"Are you all right, Jim?" the Vulcan's voice was tight with controlled concern, as he looked his Captain over from head to foot, scanning for injuries.

"I'm fine," Kirk frowned at him. "It certainly took you long enough."

Spock straightened, almost coming to attention.

"I apologize for the delay, sir."

Kirk turned his back on him, leaning forward to help the Governor to her feet. She swayed slightly, but smiled faintly in the direction of the Vulcan.

"But... Mr. Spock, you're alive?" she asked in bewilderment. "I _saw_ you taken away. They... You were..."

"Merely dazed, Governor," he explained pleasantly. "I was fortunate to be able to free myself and summon help from the _Enterprise_."

"But how—?"

"Mr. Spock is quite proficient is prison breaks, Inga," Kirk broke in, sparing a short glance at the Vulcan. "Extensive experience."

"Indeed. If I may, Captain, Doctor McCoy has expressed defined wishes to see to yours and the Governor's injuries straight away."

"It probably would be safer if she's on board," Kirk nodded readily, accepting the communicator Spock handed him. "I want to stick around for a while."

The Vulcan was clearly about to object, but was interrupted by an exclamation from behind.

"Commander! You might wanna take a look at this."

"If you will excuse me, sir. Madam."

"I'm fine, Jim," Inga said, watching Spock leave. "A bit shaky, but that's all. I need to go to my people."

"I'd rather have McCoy take a look at you first," Kirk smiled at her with kind insistence. "Just to be on the safer side. Your people would not benefit from an injured Governor."

"Oh, very well," she relented, returning his smile and running her fingers through her ruffled blonde hair distractedly. "I suppose, after what happened, I owe you one."

"As my First Officer would say, indeed," Kirk flipped the communicator open.

After the Governor had beamed up, he scanned the hall, trying to locate his First Officer. Having spotted him at the far side of the room, he moved toward him, stopping every now and then to say a few words to his Security detail. He was pleased with his Security officers and wanted them to know it.

"Captain," Spock didn't turn, but knew unerringly when Kirk came to his side. "This might be interesting."

Kirk stared down at the body.

"Was he killed when you blew up the walls?"

"It would seem so. Most unfortunate," the Vulcan remarked impassively. "But this was not what I wanted to show you."

He kneeled at the dead man's side and turned his face towards Kirk, pulling back the long hair falling down to the man's neck. The Captain bent lower.

"Spock, what—"

But he suddenly saw it. On the neck, right below the left ear, there was a small pictogram of a hammer. The tattoo surfaced menacingly, dark blue and angry looking.

"The _Nailers_?"

"Most certainly," Spock confirmed, straightening up. "That is an intriguing development."

Kirk snorted humorlessly.

"Intriguing! Who could have thought they would get this far from home?"

"It would be difficult for them to reach their goal if they stayed in the Solar system."

"Indeed," Kirk intoned grimly, still eyeing the body with distaste. "It's the second time their attack resulted in fatalities. The bastards are getting more aggressive by the day. And I still remember the time when they claimed to be a pacifist movement. If only we could..." his voice trailed off suddenly, as he turned around with a frown and stared at his First Officer suspiciously. "Spock, come over here."

"Captain?"

"Now."

The Vulcan glanced at him warily, but complied. Getting hold of Spock's arm, Kirk pulled him close determinedly and reached with his hand to run his fingers through Spock's hair, behind one elegantly pointed ear. Spock endured it stoically and without comment, but averted his eyes, broadcasting exasperated tolerance. The Captain let go of him and stared at his fingers, stained in green. He looked up and searched Spock's face speculatively.

"How bad?"

Spock shook his head, resuming a safe distance.

"Superficial."

Kirk sighed in exasperation. "Spock, what am I going to do with you? When are you going to learn that letting yourself be hit on the head is not the best solution?"

Spock looked at him impassively. "My 'extensive experience' proves this method to be valid, Captain. Crude, but effective."

Kirk raised his hands in defeat. "I give up. But I promise you, when Bones gets all over you for this, I'll enjoy every minute."

"Really, Captain," Spock raised an indignant eyebrow. "Enjoying thy neighbor's pain is hardly becoming you."

"Watch me."

Spock suppressed a sigh. "Mr. Scott reports a ship leaving orbit several minutes ago. That was quite probably our attackers' vessel. Given our situation down here, I ordered the _Enterprise_ to remain, but take sensor readings on their course for as long as possible."

Kirk grimaced, but nodded, watching Giotto and his men hovering over the site.

"Did we—?"

"No casualties among our crew, Captain," Spock anticipated his question. "However, there are numerous victims among Talouba residents."

"All right," the Captain snapped somewhat abruptly. "Let's get back to the ship, see if Inga knows anything about this," he flipped open his communicator. "Kirk to _Enterprise_ , stand by to beam up."

"Captain, request permission to remain," Spock said quickly. "There is much here to investigate."

Kirk acted as if he hadn't heard. " _Enterprise_ , come in."

"Kyle here, Captain. Standing by."

In a swift move, Spock caught Kirk's hand, holding the communicator, and pulled it towards himself. "One moment, Mr. Kyle, please," he put the link on hold.

"What the devil are you doing?" Kirk demanded.

"I believe there is more going on here than a simple terrorist attack," Spock explained quietly. "We do not have much time, and it is unlikely that whatever remaining evidence is still here now will be here for much longer."

"Giotto can handle it," Kirk objected. "You need medical attention, Mr. Spock. And we have to talk to the Governor and Starfleet Command."

"I estimate that we have about three hours here, before the _Enterprise_ will lose the trail of the rogue ship. Commander Giotto will need all the resources available," Spock returned calmly. "I sincerely trust in your unsurpassed talents of dealing with high ranking officials, Captain; most certainly, you do not require my assistance to speak with the Governor."

Kirk blushed slightly, meeting his eloquent gaze, but tilted his chin up stubbornly.

"But what about—"

"The Doctor has his hands full with casualties, at the moment," Spock's tone softened mildly. "Jim, you and I both know that my cuts and bruises can wait."

Knowing he was right, Kirk nodded reluctantly, and Spock removed his hand. The Captain glanced around the smashed hall once more.

"You believe there's more here than meets the eye?"

Spock appeared uncharacteristically hesitant. "There are certain hypotheses I would prefer to check before sharing," he finally said.

"Very well," Kirk agreed, knowing it would be useless to press. Spock's hypotheses usually proved more reliable than most people's facts, but the Vulcan experienced something close to light torture when asked to reveal untested information. "I expect your report in three hours."

"Yes, sir."

"Mr. Kyle," Kirk released the hold. "One to beam up."

 

\--

Spock's prediction about McCoy's working schedule was more accurate than he would have thought possible. If the Doctor had so much as a minute to think about the last time he had had to deal with so many casualties in his Sick Bay, he'd had a hard time remembering it.

"Move light cases to Rec Room 5, I need room here," he snapped over his shoulder, making a quick survey of the monitor readings. "That one, that and the one over there, too. Downey, I thought I ordered extra oxygen to be released, are you trying to make us all suffocate?"

"Ten percent increase in effect, Doctor."

"Then make it twenty, dammit. Use your brain, it ain't as hard as it seems."

"Yes, sir."

"Doctor," his wrist got caught in a pair of feverishly hot hands. "I want some water, please, please... I'm dying here..."

"You can't have any water," McCoy tried to disengage himself from the man's grip, but the hold only tightened. "Listen, you are delirious. You can't have any water now, it's not safe for you."

"Can't you see that I'm dying?" the man shook him with desperate force. "You're murdering me!"

"Chris! Oh, dammit..."

"Murderer! Murderer!"

"Somebody put this man in restraints before he breaks my neck!"

Two male nurses rushed toward him, freeing him with great effort from his patient's grip. McCoy whirled around, trying to locate Chapel, but she moved over to the biobed already, a hypo in her hand.

"You were enjoying this," McCoy threw at her accusingly.

She pressed the hypo to the agitated man's neck, and flashed an expressive glance at the CMO.

"I was only getting started."

"Coming through!"

The main doors opened to admit Doctor M'Benga with the third emergency team. McCoy rushed to meet the gurney.

"Oh my God," Chapel breathed out in horror, even as her hands started to upload another hypospray automatically, adjusting it for Andorian physiology.

"Report," McCoy barked, as the gurney was pulled under the wall scanner.

"Plasma burns, ninety percent of the skin surface," M'Benga was speaking, even as the scanner started to wail in alarm. "Radiation poisoning, damage to all internal organs, sixty percent kidney failure—"

"She's going into cardiac arrest," McCoy cut him off, watching the scanners. "Cardio stimulators. Move!"

"Clear!" Chapel shouted, fixing the arm of the cardio stimulator over the gurney and adjusting the setting fast.

The charge made the body arch, but the heart refused to restart.

"Again!"

"She's not responding, Doctor!"

"Increase point two joule! Again!"

"No response!"

"Point four!"

"Doctor?"

"Do it! Again!"

"I've got a pulse!"

"Two ccs of cordrazine and move her to the surgical unit. Get the temperature there down to twelve degrees," McCoy ordered, stepping out of the way. He turned to M'Benga. "What happened?"

"From what I heard she was standing near the power generator, and one of them missed," the younger Doctor replied, slightly out of breath, but with unmistakable disgust in his voice. His face was stained and lined with clammy blue blood, making an appearance of a peculiar warrior coloring.

"You need to decontaminate your team," McCoy said. "Go on, Jabilo," he added, seeing hesitation on his colleague's face. "I'll take it from here."

"I could—"

"Go, I don't want to treat another half a dozen men for radiation poisoning."

"Yes, sir," M'Benga nodded reluctantly. "How's the Governor?"

"She's fine, I've checked her half an hour ago."

"And the Captain?"

McCoy's eyes turned grey and forbidding.

"I haven't seen him."

Two hours later, as McCoy emerged from the surgical unit, the haze of activity tuned down to a normal level. Glancing wearily around, he noted that someone, most probably M'Benga, must have relieved the additional personnel they pulled over from medical research, when every hand was needed. They seemed to be under control now. Doctor Suarez came over to make a report on the casualties. McCoy listened to her impassively, unaware of a deep dark shadow clouding his face.

"The Captain ordered the senior staff to Briefing Room 2 ten minutes ago," Suarez told him, somewhat apologetically. When McCoy didn't answer, she added cautiously, but with genuine regret, "I'm sorry, Doctor."

McCoy looked up at her strangely.

"The Andorian girl," Suarez clarified. "I heard she didn't make it."

"No," he tugged the collar of his tunic abruptly, as if it was strangling him. "She didn't. Call me if anything happens."

He strode out stiffly, as if fighting a limp. Apparently, he was already running late, but didn't quicken his pace. He had to go two decks up to reach Briefing Room 2 and had no intention of hurrying. He needed to calm down, at least a little.

Losing a patient was never easy, but this one was somehow different. For nearly two hours, his team fought viciously against the towering failures of the heavily injured body. They managed to repair most of the damage, even though her heart stopped twice. But in the end, it was the radiation that they couldn't win over. The drug, suitable for humans, didn't work as well on the Andorian. It was true that the injuries were severe, but McCoy couldn't help but wonder if an Andorian physician would have been able to save her.

She was only twenty-three years old.

Involuntarily, he thought about Joanna. He could see her clearly, standing on the sunlit lawn outside her college building. She was wearing a grass-green dress that suited her so perfectly and she was laughing. She appeared thus in the holographic picture he kept in his quarters. With a twinge of shame, he realized that whenever he thought of his daughter, this image sprang to his mind, not the real person. He wasn't there when the picture was taken. In fact, the last time he saw Joanna face to face, she looked more like a teenage girl, than a young woman.

Even when a chance to place a subspace call appeared, which didn't happen often, given the nature of the _Enterprise's_ mission, she called rarely, and he not at all. She used to send him stargrams, but the last one had come more than a year ago. The closest he had ever come to sending her a message was when he had been diagnosed with a terminal illness, almost three years ago. But even then, he thought better of it for some reason. He couldn't quite explain it to himself.

He suddenly pictured Joanna terribly hurt in some unforeseen accident. What if it happened on an alien world? Would those doctors be able to help her? Would they know enough about human physiology? What were the chances of a happy ending? It felt so incredibly wrong to be leaving something as precious as human life, any life, to chance.

The Andorian girl that died on the table.

He didn't know yet what her position with the Governor's staff was, and he wasn't sure that he wanted to know. What was the point? It would probably only make him feel even more bitter than he already was. He did all he could, he fought till the end and even slightly beyond it. There was nothing he could have done. He was not the one who opened fire. There was no reason to feel guilty. Was he being unreasonable?

Walking with his head bowed, he bumped into someone coming from another corridor. He stumbled, having abruptly lost his balance, and felt two strong hands catching him out of his fall. There was certainly only one person aboard who could have done it this easily.

"Dammit, can't you look where you're going?" McCoy exclaimed irritably, turning towards the ever-calm First Officer. Spock was the last person he wanted to see right now.

But it wasn't Spock who caught him. It was Sudak.

The Vulcan looked at him with polite inquiry in his eyes.

"You were saying, Doctor?"

"Never mind," McCoy grunted. "I suppose _I_ should have been looking where I was going."

"This would have been too logical for a representative of your species."

"Look, I was distracted, all right?" the Doctor felt his annoyance terribly close to the surface. "Happens to the best of us. I'm sorry."

"An apology is not necessary where no harm is done. I suppose you are going to the senior staff meeting? You are late."

"Thanks for letting me know," McCoy snapped resuming his walk. "So are you."

The Vulcan glanced sidelong at him.

"I have been informed belatedly. It is not the first time Lieutenant Uhura is negligent in her duties."

McCoy gritted his teeth.

"Well, I was performing a surgery," he said briskly. "And I would imagine that with everything that's going on right now, Uhura might have _a few_ things on her mind." _Besides worrying of keeping you informed of what's none of your business,_ he added sourly to himself.

"Obviously. You humans are extremely poorly suited for performing multiple tasks at the same time. That is unquestionably why it requires no less than four hundred crewmembers to man this ship."

 _Count to ten_ , McCoy thought desperately. One. Two. Three. Four. It was all he could do not to launch himself at the arrogant bastard. Five. Six. That probably wouldn't reflect well on the _Enterprise_. Seven. Eight. An imbalanced Chief Medical Officer was hardly a point in their favor. Nine.

"Doctor, you have a very peculiar expression on your face."

Ten.

They were standing just outside the Briefing Room.

"After you," McCoy grunted, keeping his temper at bay with tremendous effort.

The Vulcan looked at him solemnly and strode in.

  



	3. The Nailers

As McCoy and Sudak entered, Kirk looked up.

"Gentlemen. Glad you could join us. How's your patient, Bones?"

"Dead," McCoy dropped flatly. He took a seat, closest to the door, right next to Spock, while Sudak strode past him to sit at the far end of the table.

Kirk glanced at Spock, who frowned slightly, studying the Doctor's face. He then looked at his Captain and shook his head almost imperceptibly. Kirk nodded, just as subtly. If Spock thought this wasn't the best time to pursue the issue, they were in complete agreement.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Kirk said aloud. "Mr. Scott, are you certain we are unable to trace them?"

"Aye," the Engineer sighed heavily. "Mr. Sulu is trying to reconstruct their course, but I don't think he'll get very far. We lost a lot of time, Captain."

"I hardly consider the time spent to ensure the safety of the Captain and the Governor lost, Mr. Scott," Spock objected coolly. "Not to mention tending to the injured."

"What's done is done," Kirk's face darkened slightly. "Let's return to the assault for a moment," he turned towards the Governor. "You said you didn't have any problems with the _Nailers_ before?"

She shrugged helplessly.

"Jim, to be honest with you, I've never even heard of them until today. We're not exactly in the mainstream of politics here; we're just a faraway colony, which produces no valuable resources. Oh, we earn our keep all right, and as you have seen it's a very beautiful place down there. But, other than that, we don't have anything that would attract attention."

"Governor, the group has been operating all over the sector for almost a year," Spock broke in cautiously. "They might not have visited Talouba before, but surely the reports of their activities must have been reaching you. As a high ranking federal official, you are bound to be informed—"

"Spock," Kirk sent him a warning glance, feeling Inga tensing at his side.

"Are you implying that I'm lying?" she asked tersely.

"Not at all, I apologize for giving this impression," Spock replied soothingly. "I merely pointed out that—"

"Spock," Kirk repeated, adding a command note this time. "It doesn't matter now whether the Governor has seen the outlets or not. I don't think it would hurt any of us to refresh our memory."

"Yes, sir," Spock acknowledged evenly. "Commander?"

"The _Nailers_ are a radical political group," Giotto started to explain in a cool professional tone. "They are convinced that it was a mistake for humankind to go further into space. They believe we should stay on Earth because the further exploration of the galaxy brings nothing but dangerous ideas and threats. They insist we build a defense perimeter around our Solar system and stay within its bounds at all times. According to the _Nailers_ , since the First Contact, humanity has been coerced by aliens. Our culture has been corrupted, our values contaminated. The galaxy is a hostile place, and every species poses a threat."

"Now, that's kinda hard to deny," Scott muttered with grim humor. Seeing their glances, he shrugged defensively. "Well, ye can't exactly call the Romulans friendly, not to mention the Klingons, can ye?"

"Yet at the moment, we are at peace with both Empires," Spock noted dryly.

"Aye, Mr. Spock. And we use this peace to steal technology before they can use it against us. That's not what people call being good neighbors where I come from."

"Gentlemen," Kirk intervened resolutely. "I believe we're losing our focus. Please continue, Commander."

"In short, they are isolationist, chauvinistic group," Giotto added up, as if there had been no interruption. "Until recently, they used only means of propaganda to persuade people into their cause. Words, however, had little effect, which made them turn to more aggressive methods. They tried to disrupt the faraway colonies, poisoning supplies, destroying machinery, sometimes buildings. Sort of small subversive activities, meant to get attention."

"Small subversive activities?" Governor Olofsson repeated indignantly. "Nineteen members of my staff are dead, Commander! About thirty other injured. You call that small?"

"The situation has changed recently," Spock said, exchanging a glance with Giotto.

The Security Chief was never at ease with civilians around, especially those with authority to interfere with his well-defined mechanism of work. He had no wish to argue with an agitated lady, who obviously didn't feel it necessary to read the official outlets, and now showed no patience to listen through the full report. He was a thirty-four year space veteran and, given the line of his job, it was an achievement in itself. Throughout his career, he had lost more people than constituted the ship's complement. He remembered every one of them. He had lost them to superior enemy forces, equipment failure, bad conditions, human error and a great deal of simple bad luck. But he had never lost a single one of his men due to willful negligence. And right now, when the woman was screaming about her losses he could not feel a single stab of sympathy towards her.

Giotto had noted, of course, how closely she was sitting to the Captain; their knees must have been touching. The Security Chief had never missed inconspicuous details like this, folding them carefully in a highly organized storage of his brain. He knew that the Governor and the Captain had some history. In fact, Jim Kirk would have been unpleasantly surprised if he ever found out just how accurate Giotto's information was. But the Commander was not vainly curious, just very, very thorough in his job. And the Captain would hardly have any complaints to make. After all, discretion was Giotto's second name. His first was, reportedly, caution.

He noticed Kirk's apparent territorialism towards the Governor and made an instant decision. With a quick telling glance at Spock, he bowed out of the personally marked space. The First Officer was one of the few people on board who could risk an intrusion into this touchy terrain and not get his head bitten off. Giotto knew the Vulcan understood him perfectly in this lightning mute exchange, even if no one else did.

"The _Nailers_ used to conduct quite insignificant actions," Spock took over smoothly. "Harming property, never people. Approximately one year ago, their movement produced a new leader. They call him Kramer, however, we are by no means certain that it is his real name. He suggested a more radical approach, as violent actions had so often succeeded in attracting attention in the past. An unfortunate result of this new policy was the massacre of all personnel on the Perumont 3 research facility. This day's events undoubtedly fall into the same pattern."

"How many did you apprehend?" Kirk asked Giotto.

"Twenty-one, sir. The interrogation proved fruitless. They don't know where their lead ship is headed, nor could they give any information regarding the whereabouts of the other two."

"But they must be lying," Olofsson stared at him incredulously, as if amazed at his naivety. "Of course they know where their ships are."

Giotto suppressed a sigh, and answered in a perfectly controlled tone. A tone, which did not indicate anyhow the level of his displeasure with being taught how to do his job by a dilettante.

"We used the truth serum, Governor. They could not lie."

Kirk looked at McCoy. The Doctor nodded.

"TVS-3, standard," he said flatly. "I didn't have the time to synthesize anything special. But they are all humans, so it should have worked perfectly."

"It did," Giotto assured him. "But we got nothing useful out of them anyway."

"Are we all right with this?" Scott asked dubiously. "I mean, they're no angels, all right, but they do have rights, don't they?"

Giotto stiffened and beat Spock to an answer. "Apart from everything else, they have committed an assault against a Starfleet officer."

"Which brings them under our jurisdiction," Kirk confirmed. "Don't worry, Mr. Scott, our good Doctor won't lose his medical license over this."

"Which doesn't change the fact that I don't like using this stuff one bit," McCoy grunted. "The blasted thing should be prohibited."

"That would be premature, Doctor," Spock noted. "Not to mention unwise."

"Maybe _you_ should have questioned them, Commander," Olofsson interjected. "If they are so intimidated by aliens, maybe they would have been more forthcoming with you."

Spock glanced at her with a shadow of impassive curiosity.

"Governor, I understand your desire to enforce justice. I share it. I have, however, no doubts in Commander Giotto's abilities to achieve the best results in the matter. He is a Security officer. I am not."

"Yet you insisted on staying behind with our Security team," Kirk reminded him pointedly. "You said you had some hypotheses in need of proof. Are you ready to present your findings to us?"

Again, Giotto and Spock shared a glance, before the Vulcan spoke.

"I found it to be a somewhat convenient coincidence that the _Enterprise_ was in the vicinity during both incidents, which resulted in fatalities. Generally, I do not believe in coincidences."

"You think we have been targeted?" Kirk asked sternly, catching on with no apparent difficulty.

"A distinct possibility, Captain," Spock nodded. "The interrogation did not reveal how the _Nailers_ had obtained the information about our itinerary, but they did know we would be here. I find it disquieting."

"But why would they want to target us?" Scott asked.

"The _Nailers_ are not particularly fond of Starfleet and its urge of exploration," Giotto explained. "They blame us almost as much as they blame alien influence. There is also your personal image, Captain," he added evenly. "By the _Nailers_ and the like, you are considered an alien sympathizer."

Involuntarily, they all glanced at Spock, whose only reaction to becoming the focus of attention was a slightly elevated eyebrow. He was not, of course, the only nonhuman who had ever concluded a tour of duty on the _Enterprise_ , but he was by far the most noticeable.

"There might have been another reason," Uhura spoke softly. Until now, she had been silent, listening intently, but upon hearing the last bit of information, her bewilderment had reached its limits. She glanced at the Captain thoughtfully. "A question of image, yes, sir, only perhaps not your personal image, Captain. The _Enterprise_ is a Starfleet flagship. For civilians, we are a symbol of the Federation's obligation to protect them. Yet both times despite our presence, people died. Maybe they are trying to send a message that Starfleet can't protect humans from the dangers of space?"

"This particular danger has been artificially created, Lieutenant," Spock reminded her reasonably.

She shook her head empathically. "It doesn't matter, Mr. Spock. Frightened people don't listen to arguments like this. All they would care about is that a bad thing happened and we were there and didn't stop it."

"She's right," Scott said. "People are gonna be madder with the authorities for their inability to deal with those bastards, than angry with the _Nailers_ themselves."

"Which only proves that we have been targeted," Giotto concluded. "The _Enterprise_ is probably the most visible ship in the fleet."

"What I don't understand," Uhura admitted quietly, "is how anyone can turn this bad. I thought that kind of prejudice was years behind us. I mean our first contact with alien species was peaceful and, well, good for us. Why would people suddenly see them as a threat?"

"They are a marginal group, Lieutenant," McCoy replied, as a resident psychologist. His voice was uncharacteristically tense. "They don't reflect on humanity in general. Humans were the gluing force of the Federation, formed over a century ago. We're ages past stupid stuff like race hatred and xenophobia. They are only a small isolated group of very sick people."

"Really, Doctor?" Spock asked quietly, staring at his steepled fingers thoughtfully. "While we all represent the United Federation of Planets here, I cannot help but notice that in the past four minutes I have been referred to as 'an alien' three times. Yet I am reassuringly certain that all of my fellow officers and our distinguished guests are in perfect health. It seems to me that race issues are not exclusive for some marginal group of people only."

"Dammit, Spock, what do you want from me?" McCoy exploded unexpectedly, slamming his fist into the table hard. They all glanced up at him in surprise, but he didn't notice, lost in his own dark realm. "You think I can change the mind and heart of over twelve billion people overnight? You think I'm to blame that we're pulling the biggest fraud in human history? Well, here's news for you, my pointy-eared friend, I'm no god! I can't create miracles and I can't be responsible for how humans react to nonhumans!" he stood up abruptly. "And I've already got my lecture of how Vulcans are superior to us in so many ways today, so you can save your breath! Since you're so very much advanced, you can continue this briefing without me!"

"Bones," Kirk called after him, but the Doctor appeared not to hear, storming out of the room at light speed.

"What was that all about?" Scott asked, utterly perplexed. "It seemed to be completely uncalled for."

"I have an idea," Kirk muttered darkly, forcibly returning his attention to the problem at hand. "I have discussed the situation with Starfleet Command. We are ordered to apprehend the _Nailers_ and most importantly their leader. Mr. Spock, what are the chances that Kramer was on the ship that was orbiting this planet?"

There was no immediate reply.

"Spock?"

The Vulcan was still staring at the door with an unreadable expression on his face. The effort he made to react to his Captain's inquiry was quite visible.

"The chances are favoring that line of assumption, sir," he replied evenly.

"In that case, get to the Bridge, see if you can help Sulu resurrect their warp signature. Mr. Scott, I want you to coordinate your efforts with the good Doctor to see that all of our Taloubian guests are transported down safely. Commander Giotto, it wouldn't hurt to make sure everything's quiet down there one more time before we leave. Uhura, contact Starfleet Command, inform them of the revised casualty list," he glanced around the room, making sure he thought of everything. "Dismissed."

One by one, they left the room, looking purposefully determined.

"Mr. Sudak," Kirk called after the Vulcan, who was the last to reach the doorway. "I don't believe I heard your opinion."

The Vulcan fixed him with a steady gaze.

"I am not here to provide an opinion, Captain. But you gave me quite a lot to reflect upon," he indicated the padd he was carrying. "This will all be included in my report."

Without waiting for an acknowledgement, he walked out.

"Who is this guy anyway?" Inga asked the moment they were alone.

Kirk sighed, rubbing his forehead tiredly.

"A pain in the ass," he groaned. "Believe it or not, he's an auditor and his clearance is higher than yours and mine put together. Starfleet sent him to observe the way we do things on the _Enterprise_."

"Why?" she looked bewildered.

"We're about to end our five-year mission," Kirk explained reluctantly. "We are due to submit a great deal of information. Our performance must be evaluated. And as most of my senior staff has been here since the beginning, Command feels we might have lost some of our objectivity towards each other."

"What, they believe you're taking turns in going on unauthorized shore leaves and then covering up for each other?" she asked in amused amazement.

"Something like that," he grinned weakly. "It's a normal practice when a long mission is about to end. It's just that it feels a bit... early. Shall we?"

He let her precede him out, and they walked without much hurry towards the Transporter Room. She glanced sideways at him.

"Admit it, Jim, that's not how you thought old friends should meet."

"You look a bit too blooming to be old anything," he said, trying to lighten her mood. She smiled appreciatively at him. "As for friends... I don't believe you and I have ever gotten that far. As I recall, you and Gary were too thoroughly... preoccupied with each other."

She nudged him playfully in the ribs. "James Kirk, you are not a gentleman."

"Well, considering all the times I had to look for other accommodations thanks to your timely appearance, it really shouldn't come as one hell of a shock now, should it?"

She laughed, startling a passing crewman.

"You are incorrigible."

"And you are amazing as ever. Governor at thirty-three, eh? I knew you were ambitious and resourceful, but that's still very impressive."

"Well, you've made captain by thirty-two, so we're even. Besides, Talouba is a small distant colony with nothing of particular interest to offer. Any decent administrator would have no problems managing it."

"I think you're underselling yourself," he said gently. "It's a very beautiful place down there, and it was you who made it shine. Gary would have been very proud of you, Inga."

She stopped, looking him in the eye deeply.

"You really think so, Jim?"

He nodded, very seriously.

"Yes. About as proud as I am right now."

She sighed lightly and smiled gratefully at him, then kissed him softly on the cheek.

"I really love you, Jim. You know that, don't you? I think if it hadn't been for Gary, it would have been you."

His expression turned from serious to deadpan, as he put his arms around her waist casually.

"I know," he said. "Believe me Inga, it would have been you... if it hadn't been for Gary, of course."

Her eyes widened and then she laughed heartily, pushing him away in indignation.

"You are impossible," she shook her head, still laughing. "Get me off of your ship, while I still have some drops of decency left."

"My pleasure, Ma'am," he took her by the arm gently and led the remaining couple of meters to the Transporter Room.

"Thanks for all your help," she said, turning to look back at him from the transporter pad. "You'll catch them, won't you?"

Kirk bowed his head. "We'll do our best. Please stay in touch and call at first sign of trouble," he nodded to the transporter technician. "Energize."

He watched the slim silhouette disappearing in sparkling haze of dematerialization, and walked out of the Transporter Room deep in thought.

It was not easy to maintain a casual demeanor in front of Inga. It was becoming increasingly difficult by the day not to dwell upon the end of the mission. He could not quite explain the reasons for his apprehension, but it started to resemble anxiety more and more as the days went by. It was getting harder to act as if nothing was happening. There wasn't any particular cause to feel frustrated about it. They were one tired ship and one tired crew, after all. But they were also young, and in good shape, and there was no reason not to expect to receive another mission after a period of rest. No cause for worry.

People were tired, too.

No, not tired. Restless. There was a certain sense of unease crawling in the corridors, lurking in shadows. He didn't even notice how many shadows there were on his ship until recently. It was somehow quieter on the Bridge. Less conversations floating around, less jokes, less distractions.

He remembered when Pavel Chekov was promoted to main shift Navigator he could hardly have five minutes of peace on the Bridge. He had to order Chekov and Sulu to stop chatting and mind their consoles at least three times per hour. Sometimes Spock would do it, catching an exasperated glance from his Captain. Chekov joined the Bridge crew almost three years ago. He and Sulu kept it so quiet lately, hardly exchanging a word. Had they exhausted all the topics in three years?

He thought about Uhura. Usually, during ordinary days, unmarked by some planetary disaster or a threat of battle, she used to hum quietly at her station. It happened late in her shift, as she was sorting the reports from different ship's departments. She would hum absent-mindedly, not disturbing anyone, but making them smile. They would all share this private smile behind her back, including Spock, who would lift an eyebrow and smile with his eyes. This soft quiet sound became as much a part of the Bridge routine as recording log entries, sometimes slipping into them. It had been a while since he had heard that sound, Kirk realized suddenly. A long while.

Scotty was hardly seen outside his Engine Room. This wasn't anything particularly new, but the exclusiveness of this arrangement had deepened considerably lately. Scott hadn't ever been overly active in socializing, but he used to spend some time with the crew in the Rec Room. He enjoyed Uhura's improvised concerts, for one. But then, there hadn't been any concerts for a while now. Sometimes Kirk would join him and McCoy for a game of poker. The Engineer and the Doctor used to share a brandy over cards a couple of times a week, sometimes playing for most unusual stakes. Kirk remembered how McCoy had to wear a red shirt for a week, inviting all sorts of jests, and an unceasing lecture from Spock regarding the Doctor's newfound talents. Had it really been so long? It seemed like only yesterday.

Bones was keeping to himself lately, too. He still haunted the Bridge 'to see how the things are going' and continuously harassed Kirk about his health, but it seemed more like a routine maintenance than real fire. Baiting Spock was still his favorite form of entertainment though, and it was strangely reassuring. But Kirk couldn't remember quite clearly when the last time was that his CMO had stopped by his cabin late in the evening to share a drink and to talk.

Kirk was distinctly aware that he himself should have been making calls to Starfleet Headquarters in order to ascertain their status. To feel the water, if nothing else. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to do it. Logically, any crew as successful as theirs would be allowed to continue as one. He didn't want to call the HQ to find out just how illogical they could be these days.

Besides, they sent Sudak.

At first, Kirk couldn't put his finger on what tripped him out so much about Sudak. On the surface, he was just as any other Vulcan Kirk knew, with two possible exceptions. He was calm, confident, impassive. His comportment was one of leveled dignity with a slight touch of arrogance. He scrupulously attended to his duties, but his presence, however unnerving, was never disturbing the normal operations on board. In fact, Kirk mused, if all Federation officials acted in similar manner when making a tour on a starship, starship captains would quite probably have been less willing to object to their presence. No, he thought darkly. It wasn't Sudak's detached curiosity directed at every aspect of the _Enterprise's_ functions that made Kirk uneasy.

It was the way he treated Spock.

Kirk couldn't put into words what it was exactly that Sudak was doing wrong, but the feeling was persistent. The Captain was acutely aware of it since the first moment the Commissioner had beamed aboard. Kirk and Spock had been waiting to greet him in the Transporter Room, discussing ship's business in the meantime. As usual, Spock was standing close at his side, lowering his voice automatically, as he spoke to the Captain. Kirk was looking in his face with a soft smile, as he listened to Spock's report, nodding and commenting from time to time. The transporter technician paid them no attention. Those exclusive conferences between the Captain and the First Officer were nothing new to the crew.

Sudak materialized on the platform, looking directly at them. His dark eyes that gave a distinct impression of missing nothing observed the officers standing in front of him with conscious scrutiny. As his still gaze drifted from Kirk to Spock, Kirk felt a cool wave washing over him, as if a sudden draught appeared in a well-regulated environment. Seconds later, he realized what had happened. Unawares, completely on instinct, Spock took a step back and away.

Away from him.

And the eyes of the elder Vulcan glinted with satisfaction.

The small gesture was the beginning. As they left Starbase upon having received a new assignment and the inspection was progressing gradually, Kirk had found that the distance between him and Spock grew further by the day. The thought did not emerge on a conscious level for a while. After all, everyone was somewhat tense and nervous having an inspector aboard. But when Spock canceled their work-out session for the third time in a row, this time without any explanation, the Captain realized he was missing something. He tried to talk to Spock about it during their chess game the next evening, but the Vulcan favored him with nothing more coherent than one-syllable answers and a mask of complete misunderstanding. It was as if he wasn't even there.

Something was wrong, Kirk could sense it. They had occasionally transported Vulcan officials before, and although Spock always stiffened somewhat in their presence, he had never tried to revert into his super-Vulcan state. Most certainly not when they were alone. They had come a long way since Psi 2000, when Spock was ashamed to admit his feelings for Jim even to himself. It had been a very old story now. In fact, Spock had become so comfortable with openly calling Kirk his friend that McCoy had long stopped teasing him about it and moved to other subjects. Kirk found it extremely frustrating to be suddenly thrown back in time like that.

But that wasn't only about him, Kirk reflected with yet another twinge of apprehension. He was selfish, but he wasn't that selfish. This sudden change could not have occurred without a reason. Spock was in trouble, he could tell, and Sudak was somehow responsible for it. If only he could find out how...

He reached the turbolift and paused, thinking of his options. Bones would probably be better off if Kirk let him cool down first before approaching him. And he had to admit, he was tired. He punched the comm panel decisively.

"Kirk to Bridge."

"Spock here," came the prompt and expected reply.

"Any progress, Mr. Spock?"

"Negative, Captain. However, we are working."

Kirk smiled. "I have no doubts about it, Spock. I'll talk to Scotty and then go to my quarters. Keep me posted."

"Aye, sir."

"Kirk out."

He rubbed his neck, trying to alleviate the pain in the sore muscles. Perhaps they could all use a short break. Spock didn't sound too cheerful, either. Wondering briefly if Sudak was on the Bridge too, Kirk walked into the turbolift, carrying his unpronounced sigh inside.


	4. Evening Shadows

"How's it coming?" Sulu asked, sitting down on the edge of the Science station.

"It isn't," Chekov looked up at him grimly. "I thought you were off duty."

Sulu shrugged. "I guess I'm feeling a little guilty for losing the trail."

"It was not your fault," the Russian said gravely. "Mr. Spock says the technology they used far exceeds our capabilities to trace them."

"How's that possible? I thought their ships were just some old pieces of junk."

"Obviously you thought wrong," Chekov turned back towards his scanner.

"Hey, is everything all right?" Sulu surveyed his tense posture with a twinge of worry. "You look like you could use a break."

"I don't want a break!" Chekov snapped sharply, making Sulu flinch.

It was late in the Beta shift, and the Ensign should have long come off duty as well. When he refused to be relieved earlier, Sulu thought that he was just being thorough, following his orders, but suddenly it didn't seem true anymore. He studied his friend's face carefully, noting the dark rims under Chekov's eyes and his unnaturally bleak pallor.

"Pasha, what's going on?" Sulu asked quietly.

"I asked you not to call me that!" Chekov hissed at him. "If you will excuse me, sir. I need to concentrate on my work."

" _Sir_?" Sulu stared at him incredulously. He straightened up, torn between anger and confusion. "All right, _Ensign_ , I'll leave you alone. I just thought that you might want some help, but obviously..." he trailed off, as if waiting for Chekov to interrupt. He didn't. "Fine then. See you tomorrow."

Again, there was no response. Chekov appeared to be completely engrossed in his calculations, paying no attention to anything around him.

Glancing at the center seat, occupied by Lieutenant DeSalle, Sulu walked towards the turbolift.

"Deck Six," he grumbled, reaching for the handle.

What the hell was wrong with Chekov? Now that he thought of it, the Ensign was somewhat subdued, with no apparent reason, for a couple of days at least. Or was it a week? Sulu shook his head in frustration.

Chekov's abrupt and inexplicable changes of mood, usually for the worst, were not exactly news to him. Nor was his wish to keep his troubles to himself. He was a model introvert. Sometimes, it made Sulu wonder even how, given Chekov's persistent tendency to shut everyone out, they ever ended up friends.

Sulu remembered vividly the grins and winks that were exchanged behind the young Ensign's back when he had first come on board. Chekov was an ideal target for all sorts of pranks and jokes—it was his first deep space assignment and he was taking everything far too seriously. His apparent preoccupation with all good things being invented in Russia only added fuel to the flames. With a reminiscent smile, Sulu thought that Chekov's first couple of weeks on the _Enterprise_ must have been pretty unbearable.

To general surprise, however, Chekov appeared to be impervious to practical jokes and if he had understood the verbal ones, he never gave any indication of it. They labeled him as gloomy and left alone only to discover that it was apparently the moment Chekov had been waiting for.

Uhura turned up in Sick Bay, unable to remove her earpiece from her ear. At first, Doctor McCoy laughed, but after it had taken him nearly two hours to get rid of the offending equipment, he was madder than hell. It turned out the surface of the device was coated with some very special glue that only became active when in contact with a warmer surface. According to Uhura, it was not the worst of it. After she left the Bridge, the receiver seemed to lock itself on one frequency only. She might not have been familiar with ancient Russian music before, but after two and a half hours of listening to 'God Save the Tsar' she was livid.

The next day, as Sulu went to the gymnasium for his usual fencing training, odd things started to happen to him. Just as he got in position on the podium facing his opponent and started the first move, the tip of his rapier was suddenly pulled towards the deck, making him lose his balance and fall. His opponent scored, of course.

Struggling to understand what had happened, Sulu examined his sword, but found nothing wrong with it. But the moment he started the encounter anew, the rapier was glued to the deck again, and then again. Sulu's opponent was thoroughly irritated by the Lieutenant's 'clownery' and left, bristling in disgust. Sulu called Engineering, demanding the problem to be examined. His call was answered by Mandy Mathewson, and later on he thought he should have realized right then and there who was responsible for his misery. Mandy took part in making fun of Chekov only too happily.

At first she didn't believe him. When he tried to demonstrate what had been going on, his rapier remained as obedient as ever. Mandy's lecture upon being interrupted for no reason at all was quite colorful. But Sulu was insistent. Grudgingly, she agreed to examine the podium. They spent the rest of the day dismantling the whole thing to pieces, studying each fragment scrupulously, and still found nothing wrong. By that time, Mandy was barely articulate in her displeasure. It was only then when they finally examined the rapier to discover a miniscule transceiver cut seamlessly into the thin scrape of metal. The device was capable of receiving commands from a fifty meters radius, which clearly included the gallery. But it had, of course, long been deserted.

The next duty shift started quite unpleasantly for Doctor McCoy, as his Head Nurse had suddenly given a shriek so loud and desperate, he had thought she was being tortured. He stormed into the office to discover Christine taking refuge on the table and absolutely refusing to get down. No demands, pleas and even threats were capable of convincing her to step down, and it was only with tremendous difficulty that McCoy discovered the source of that blind panic.

There were a couple of white mice loose on the deck. The animals in question usually habited one of the medical labs, and nobody seemed to be able to explain how they got out of the containment field and through a closed door. The CMO was quite ready to climb the walls as he discovered that, while Christine was totally capable of working with the very same mice in the lab, she reverted to instinctive reaction of so many women when they suddenly had been set loose.

It was then when the Ensign's activity was finally brought to the senior staff's attention.

Captain Kirk, who hadn't even seen Chekov until then, seemed to be determined to get rid of the troublemaker. McCoy, who had cooled down considerably by then, found the whole thing endearingly funny, but Kirk's mind seemed to be made up. Suddenly, Spock intervened, saying that he would be glad to keep the Ensign in the Science department. Kirk was surprised, and the Science Officer explained gradually that anyone who had been able to change the molecular structure of the commonly used glue to act in that particular fashion or to pick up a code-protected lock without triggering the computer alarm was promising enough to study. Before Kirk could react, Giotto asked him to assign Chekov to Security. Anyone who had been able to gather as much intimate information about the crew on such a short notice, not to mention use a cold head and fine tactics in implementing his revenge had been destined to serve in Security, he had said.

Being genuinely intrigued by the dilemma, the Captain decided to study the Ensign himself, assigning him to the Bridge duty, with cross-training in Security and Science.

Chekov was surprised by this decision. From what he had told Sulu months later, he had fully expected a transfer. True, his actions were only a response to a challenge, but somehow he was convinced that he would be asked to leave. That insecurity surprised Sulu, but he had never asked Chekov why he had felt so unsure of himself. Instead of a transfer, he got a tour of main shift Bridge duty, something that the newcomers were hardly to expect.

Captain Kirk was something of a hero for the Ensign. It was amusing to see how eager he had been to please him, how vehement he had appeared in his duties. In a few weeks, Sulu overheard McCoy's comment to Kirk that if the latter didn't start to be impressed soon, the boy would simply blow up from pure effort. Kirk, it appeared, had been impressed enough to appoint Chekov as main shift Navigator.

Sulu shook his head, soft grin creasing his lips, as he thought about those days. Tentatively, they made steps towards each other. Despite his youthful naivety, Chekov was a hard one to reach. He never opened up enough to give the reason for this uncommon reserve, but in the end Sulu's steady friendly conduct and Uhura's challenging but kind attitude had won him over. He was generally friendly, responsive and willing to participate in every new adventure, be it a landing party or a birthday celebration. However, except for Uhura and Sulu, he had formed no close ties with anyone else on board.

Over the years, Sulu got used to Chekov's reactions, at least to those that he had chosen to show. His foul mood would quite probably dissipate over a few days by itself, Sulu thought. But something kept nagging him about the conversation on the Bridge. Chekov had never before shoved him off like that. Maybe he should talk to Uhura. The Communications Officer was notorious for her intuition and accurate insights in people's characters.

The thought of Uhura made him sigh again.

Several days ago he had accidentally run into her and Scott in the Officers' Mess, deserted due to the late hour. It took him only a second to realize that Uhura had been crying. He stood rooted to the spot, unable to believe his eyes. In all the years he had known her, he had never seen her in tears. Not like that, at the very least. It was clear from an awkward expression on the Engineer's face that he had been trying to comfort her, but had been far from succeeding. She leapt to her feet then and practically ran out of the room, leaving two utterly confused men alone.

Somehow Sulu didn't feel that asking Scott to explain what had happened would do any good. He asked anyway. The Chief Engineer just shrugged helplessly. Knowing it was pointless to press, Sulu dropped the subject. The next day, Uhura had turned up on the Bridge, acting as if nothing was wrong. It was easy for him to dismiss the matter then. But now Chekov was acting strangely, too.

With yet another sigh, Sulu decided not to bother Uhura that night. He felt strangely uneasy. The nearing end of their five-year mission seemed to throw an invisible but tangible veil over the entire ship. Was he the only one who was not feeling bad about it, he wondered. It seemed like all of a sudden everywhere he looked he saw traces of concealed worry and concern. Everyone tried to act normally so hard that sometimes they totally overdid themselves.

Sulu had actually been looking forward to the end of the mission. His application to Command School had been accepted, and he was eager to start his training. The _Enterprise_ was as much a home for him, as it was for his shipmates, but he knew from the beginning that one day he would be leaving it. He wasn't quite ready to do it yet, but he was certain, even if the knowledge had brought him sadness, that the day would sooner or later come.

Watching Captain Kirk in command had changed his life's ambitions. He had first joined the _Enterprise_ crew as an astrophysicist, and had switched to command piloting only when Captain Kirk had assumed command. When the Captain had first asked him to join the Bridge crew in that capacity, it was nothing but a change of scenery for Sulu. He loved piloting and he lost no sleep thinking about the future. He was young and happy.

But the more he had been exposed to the influence of the center seat, the more compelled to it he felt. He, too, had admired the Captain, though not as blindly as Chekov. He realized that even though he, too, wanted to be in command, he and Kirk would be motivated by profoundly different reasons.

Sulu loved handling the ultimate complexity that was a starship. He drew infinite pleasure from piloting because of the feel of great power responding to the slightest movements of his hands. He frequently caught himself 'sensing' the triggering of the warp drive when he input the command, feeling its way from relay to relay, from the command center on the Bridge, down to Engineering and from there on to the engines. It felt even better from the center seat, when somehow, not only navigation, but each and every function of the ship seemed to be focused in his hands. He could handle a starship far better than most people could handle a flitter, and without as much effort.

All the good things he could do, all the places he could go to... The galaxy attained quite an enchanting look when seen from the center seat of a Constitution-class starship.

Then, of course, there were battles. The excitement of having outsmarted a superior opponent was a trait Captain Kirk and his Helmsman shared. It was Kirk's spontaneous brilliance in changing tactics, taking unthinkable risks and always believing in the final victory that had first knocked Sulu out. At times of tactical alerts, Kirk sometimes appeared almost as a maniac, as crazy solutions came to him at warp speed, executed by the shocked team due to his willpower only. Solutions, so utterly insane, that only the naval discipline made people obey the orders. Solutions that later proved to be the only possible ones to save the ship and whatever else the _Enterprise_ was fighting for at the moment.

Kirk was known as a man who did not believe in no-win scenarios. He had faced enough of them, turning them to his favor by sheer force of personal determination, to be granted a phenomenal measure of trust from his crew. And that was where their command styles would differ, Sulu thought.

For Kirk, command would always be a deeply personal matter. He did not know of any other ways to cope with any situation imaginable than being in total control of it. Or at least in as much control as was humanly possible. And that one was a problem.

'Delusions of godhood.'

A sticky Klingon phrase that the _Enterprise's_ CMO was eager to remind the Captain about every now and then. Sulu did not know what had triggered it, but he too had noted that Kirk tended to perceive any trouble as his personal responsibility to prevent. When he couldn't, it hit him harder than any physical torture, to which he had been subjected numerous times.

' _You're not a god, Jim, you're just a starship captain.'_

In a cramped, closed world of a starship, junior officers heard much more than senior officers would have cared to admit. Sulu, as well as the rest of them, had been a witness many times as the Doctor, and sometimes Spock, tried to ease some of the burden Kirk seemed to be determined to carry on his shoulders. Neither had quite succeeded.

There seemed to be a deeply hidden layer in Kirk, which no one was able to access. That concealed mystery, an unrevealed twist in Jim Kirk's psyche had made him stand alone much more effectively than his position in the chain of command. Sulu, who had been carrying no secret luggage, sympathized, even though he had never quite understood.

He changed his mind and, instead of going to his quarters, walked into the ship's Arboretum. He had always felt at ease there, among the growing plants. Listening to their barely detectable whispers had a soothing effect on him. He relaxed, watching the almost imperceptible movements of leaves and thinking of nothing.

After a few minutes of quiet contemplation, Sulu picked up the garden scissors and started to cut the dry branches of his favorite Aldebaran jasmine. Smiling and humming softly and not melodically, he remained in the garden for the rest of the evening, taking care of the plants he loved so much.


	5. Midnight Strolls

Sick Bay was deafeningly quiet when Spock strode in. The duty nurse glanced up at him and nodded once, as if answering an unasked question. Spock walked straight towards the CMO's office. The door was locked, but he had expected this. Command override always left a record, but aboard the _Enterprise_ , there was hardly any door Spock couldn't open without resigning to the use of his authority. He entered a peculiar combination on the panel almost absently, and the door slid obediently aside.

Again, as expected, he saw a half-emptied bottle on the desk. The CMO was sitting behind it, his head in his hands, as he studied the padd that lied on the desk in front of him. At the sound of the opening door he glanced up, and his eyes glinted with an unidentified emotion.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite alien. Didn't your mother teach you to knock, Spock? You're being rude."

One eyebrow elevated, Spock came over to slide into the visitor's chair.

"I cannot help but notice that your manners appear to be just as wanting, Doctor."

"In what way? You seem to be getting all comfortable without my help."

"You did not offer me a drink."

McCoy's eyebrows arched eloquently.

"You want a drink, Spock? That's a new one."

"I did not say I wanted it," Spock parried. "Merely that you seem to be lacking your usual hospitality."

"And you came here to put me in order?"

"In what drastically small measure of it can be achieved in your case, yes."

There was a peculiar glimmer in the Doctor's smoke-blue eyes, as he stared at the Vulcan intently. Spock returned the stare and the challenge.

"So," McCoy drawled after a pause, gazing at the Science Officer through half-closed eyelashes. "Would you like to have a drink with me, Spock?"

Spock shot an appraising glance at the bottle. Inwardly, he cringed. Aloud, he said, "Thank you."

McCoy smiled, dropping his gaze to prevent it from saying too much. He reached out to take another glass off the shelf and poured it with medical precision. After sliding it across the desk over to Spock, he leaned back again, folding his arms across his chest.

"If you place a bet, you'll have to eventually face the consequences, Spock," he said, observing the even grey coloring of his desk.

"I am aware of that," Spock replied calmly. "At the moment, however, it appears that it is the dealer who hesitates."

McCoy's eyes snapped up abruptly to meet Spock's, almost on their own volition, and remained arrested there.

"The dealer," McCoy uttered gravely, "has too much at risk."

Up went that eyebrow yet again.

"Indeed? Then perhaps he should look for a partner to share this risk with. Someone who can be trusted."

Another charged silence stretched between the two, until the Doctor finally looked away.

"Damn you, Spock," he muttered, reaching for his own glass, with a slightly unsteady hand. "I should never have taught you to play poker. Should have known you'd use it against me one day."

"Against you? McCoy, you are not nearly as naïve to allow anyone to take advantage of you, least of all—" he paused. "Unless, of course, it is what you currently desire. In which case, I am at your service."

McCoy glanced at him sharply. The reaction was too much of a giveaway, but he realized in a moment it didn't matter. There was quiet soft light of understanding in the dark gaze, telling him that Spock, too, was hardly as naïve anymore to make that particular choice of words accidentally. That he knew exactly what he was saying and what was being said to him. Understanding was there, also sympathy, and—serenity. Total tranquility, absolute peace. Undisturbed. McCoy closed his eyes.

"Ever heard of 'I shall do no harm,' Spock? It's a shame they didn't make _you_ swear that."

His eyes still closed, he was acutely aware of the amusement sewn into the rich tapestry of the deep low voice.

"I assure you my intentions are honorable."

McCoy laughed, meeting the Vulcan's gaze again openly and shaking his head.

"Let me know when this changes, Spock. I might just throw a party."

The elevated eyebrow was his only answer.

The level of tension in the room eased naturally, as they each took a sip of their drinks. Spock barely touched his, watching the human scrupulously. McCoy was obviously deep in some unpleasant thought, as his face clouded again, a frown edged sharply on his forehead.

"Doctor?"

McCoy sighed, once again acknowledging Spock's presence and the obvious reason for his visit.

"I suppose you want to know what happened."

Spock bowed his head slightly.

"A most logical assumption. I am certain that it has something to do with your educational program for Starfleet Medical."

"It does."

"Has there been a development?"

"A development!" McCoy snorted mirthlessly. "It's been rejected again. I wouldn't exactly call it a development. Blast those people anyway. They can't see beyond their shallow narrow-minded concepts. If they were the only ones paying for it, I'd make some popcorn, sit back and enjoy. Oh, how much I would have enjoyed it," his eyes glinted malevolently. "You have no idea. But it's you who pays the price, Spock. You, that Andorian girl, Arex, and how many others? You're ten times right, Spock, we're a bunch of bloody hypocrites. We call ourselves the Federation, yet our starships are equipped with medical personnel who know nothing about nonhuman physiology! Textbooks and manuals—all they give us are textbooks and manuals! I don't want to get lessons in interspecies biology, while people are dying on my table! I lost that girl today, and I'm convinced I could have helped her, had I known what an Andorian physician would have known!"

"You cannot be certain of that," Spock objected softly. "I know that you did everything you could."

"That's exactly what I'm talking about, Spock," McCoy's voice sounded bitter. "What I can do, what I know is simply not enough. But the real tragedy is that it's ten times worse in the rest of the fleet. As little as I know, I'm one of the best."

The corners of Spock's lips curled up slightly. McCoy glared at him.

"I dare you to challenge that."

Spock raised an irenic hand.

"You _are_ one of the best, Doctor. I would even go as far as to admit that you probably have the largest collection of beads and rattles in the fleet."

McCoy chuckled, shaking his head.

"You pointy-eared son of a bitch," he muttered affectionately. "If it wasn't for my beads and rattles, Spock, you'd be dead a dozen times over."

"Indeed. Your methods might be crude to my taste, Doctor," Spock looked him in the eye squarely, "but I have never met a more dedicated physician."

McCoy felt his cheeks getting suddenly very warm and had to swallow a lump in his throat, before he could speak.

"Hell, Spock. It's the nicest thing that you've ever said to me," he marveled quietly. But almost instantly his instincts took over. "Which probably means I'm actually not as good, because you're very sick and I don't know it."

"I assure you, Doctor, I am in perfect health. This program of yours, however," the Vulcan mused thoughtfully. "After you first told me about it, I researched the subject. Did you know that over a hundred years ago, before the Federation had been formed, Vulcan Medical Academy initiated a medical exchange program, in which humans also participated?"

"I didn't, but somehow it doesn't surprise me that the Vulcans would have thought about that. It's damn reasonable."

"Why, Doctor," Spock cocked an eyebrow at him. "I believe that is the nicest thing that you have ever said to me."

McCoy scowled, and Spock continued on his findings.

"The data on the program is somewhat sporadic, but I did manage to recover the names of the human physicians that took part in the exchange. Once on Earth, I am certain their logs can be accessed. It is highly probable that they had found the experience beneficial."

"I'd say," McCoy nodded. "M'Benga here is a living example of possible benefits."

"Indeed. Perhaps the accounts of this experience would help convincing Starfleet Medical to accept your proposal?"

"I don't know, Spock," McCoy sighed heavily. "It's not them who need convincing, so much as it is Leland."

"The Admiral is currently responsible for a number of Starfleet departments, is he not?"

"Including Starfleet Medical, yes," the Doctor emptied his glass. "The bastard."

"I would be interested to know what the Admiral has against your program. It seems remarkably useful and logical."

"If you're going to get nasty..." McCoy wagged his finger at the Vulcan and grimaced. "His arguments are that my proposal requires appointing dozens of physicians from all over the Federation to read the subjects. New classrooms have to be organized, and that's one hell of a headache. They would have not only to teach new students accordingly, but to retrain thousands of practicing physicians."

"Administrative difficulty is a susceptible argument compared to something as badly needed," Spock objected. "Surely the Admiral can see the necessity—"

"Oh, that he can, all right," McCoy grunted sourly. "But he says that to do it the way I suggest means to waste 'an unacceptable quantity' of resources and investments. He says we'll have to go slowly, bringing the changes gradually during the next five years. Five years—can you believe it?"

"It seems an unreasonably long period," Spock agreed, frowning slightly. "I believe that, with due effort, your proposal can be made effective in less than half of that time."

"Well," McCoy raised his hands helplessly. "Leland doesn't agree. And I am forbidden to bother him with this again. With the _Nailers_ and the Klingons and God knows what else, the almighty Admiral has his hands full without my ideas of how to make the galaxy a better place."

Spock tilted his head slightly and stared at the Doctor's face piercingly.

"I have never known you to be easily discouraged. This cause is worth fighting for. Do not give up."

McCoy raised his eyebrows, as a rueful smile spread out on his lips.

"My God, Spock. Either I've drunk too much and am dreaming, or you're in an awfully funny mood tonight," he shook his head incredulously. "In any case, I haven't given up. It's too damn important. But—thanks. Now get the hell out of my office. You took quite a beating, and don't think for a moment that I don't know it. Go get some sleep."

"A most valuable advice, Doctor," Spock said, coming fluidly to his feet. "I am somewhat fatigued. I trust you too will retire?"

"Sure, I just want to finish this first," McCoy nodded at his padd.

"May I ask—?"

"It's an official letter to the C in C," the Doctor replied with a hint of vindictive pleasure. "I'm having difficulty deciding whether 'arrogant tight-ass' or 'pig-headed xenophobe' describes the Admiral better. What do you think, Spock?"

Spock's eyebrow climbed up half an inch.

"I'm afraid this problem exceeds my area of expertise," he stated deadpan. "I will therefore leave the choice in your capable hands."

"Wait, Spock," McCoy called after him, halting him at the door.

The Vulcan turned back towards him.

"Yes?"

"Is Jim pissed at either one of us?"

Spock tilted his head to his left slightly.

"Not to my knowledge."

"So, I shouldn't really read anything into the fact that it's you down here and not him?" McCoy asked a bit uncertainly.

Spock's face stiffened, as if his features were momentarily touched by a blow of freezing wind. His voice sounded distinctly cooler when he replied.

"I do not require Jim's permission to come talk to a friend, Doctor."

McCoy raised his hands.

"I didn't say you did. Hell, you're awfully touchy today, Spock. First all this alien talk, and now..."

The Vulcan looked at him strictly, but then his expression softened mildly.

"The Captain did want to come see you, too," he relented.

"You spoke with him?"

"No, but I know he did. It appears, however, that his report to Starfleet Command turned out to be a more tedious task than he had expected," Spock was speaking slowly, his eyes lifted to the ceiling as if he was listening to something intently. "Combined with the excitement of the action planetside earlier and a double shift he had pulled, I would assume..."

"Don't tell me," McCoy grinned. "He's in bed like a good boy?"

A shadow slid across Spock's face. For a human, it would have been a grimace.

"Not exactly in bed, I believe," he said with a hint of displeasure. "However, he is asleep."

"At his desk, I bet," McCoy grunted, shaking his head. "You'll check on him before turning in?"

Spock merely looked at him. The Doctor shrugged.

"Yeah. Stupid question. Well, I won't hold you up then. Goodnight, Spock. Thanks for stopping by."

"Goodnight, Doctor."

The door closed behind him with a soft hiss; the privacy lock was reengaged smoothly. McCoy's gaze drifted over to Spock's barely touched glass. He sighed.

"A piece of advice, Spock," he muttered, addressing the Vulcan's empty chair. "Don't ever talk to Jim the way you talked to me. Friends or no friends, you won't make it out of the room that easily. Unless, of course," he added thoughtfully as his fingers closed around the cool glass, "it is what you currently desire. In which case..."

He wondered fleetingly why he hadn't had the courage to say that to Spock's face.

 

 

\--

Squaring her shoulders, Uhura walked determinedly past the sign 'Communications', feeling an unsettling presence at her side. She suppressed a sigh. Recently, she had been taking the night shifts, telling herself that it was for the sake of her junior staff. After all, they all deserved a taste of the main shift duty. But mainly, she realized, she was trying to avoid her current company. Well, wasn't that an illogical endeavor from the start?

"This is our TransLinguistics and Protocol Section," she pointed at the double doors. "Here we work on integrating the new languages into the universal translator."

"It sounds most intriguing. Please proceed with the demonstration."

She wasn't planning on any kind of demonstration, but smiled sweetly and led Sudak inside. Full cooperation, Captain Kirk had said two weeks ago at the senior staff meeting, which had taken place prior to the Commissioner's arrival. Full cooperation. The _Enterprise_ was the finest ship in the fleet, and if Command felt they needed to verify that, their duty was to obey. Uhura was as proud of the ship as anyone, but she was also nervous.

For the first time she had to live through such an inspection as head of department. Years of serving on the _Enterprise_ had rendered her newfound confidence that she could not only carry out her duties to the best of her abilities, but also organize and maintain efficient functioning of the whole department. Somehow, Sudak's presence had put her on the spot. She remembered how proudly Kirk looked at her, when he introduced her as the most capable communications officer in the fleet. She didn't doubt her competence, didn't think the Captain was paying her an idle compliment. She knew the praise had been well deserved. Yet now she felt as if it would have been better if the Captain hadn't been quite so blatant—or so proud. It had set a rather high plank to stand up to.

Besides, Sudak unnerved her. Until she had come aboard the _Enterprise_ , she had never served with a Vulcan before. Now she felt as if Spock's proximity over the years had both prepared and not prepared her for more exposure. He was a Vulcan, sometimes overly Vulcan, all right. But somehow throughout all this, he also was just Spock. No matter how coldly and detached he acted at times, how enigmatic he appeared, he always felt safe to be around. His cool, quiet presence had soothed her nerves more times than she could count. There had been other times, of course. The times, when Spock's presence ignited a storm of reactions inside her, all of which were as far from cool and calm as day from night. But even then, inexplicably, he felt safe. No peace, maybe. But no threat.

Sudak, however...

She glanced briefly at the imposing figure following her. Almost Spock's height, he was broader, more bulky, though still in an inimitable Vulcan way. It must have been at least partly due to his age, as he was seventy-one years old. The beginning of mid-life for a Vulcan. His hair was the rare color of platinum, creating an intimidating combination with his almost black eyes. He had nothing of Spock's inborn grace, but he moved with a confidence which Spock lacked, entering any room as if it belonged to him. She had to admit, however reluctantly, that it was extremely compelling.

This late-night inspection, she supposed, was another way to get onto her nerves. Fleetingly she wondered if the Vulcan was aware of the reaction he invoked and was doing it on purpose. To the best of her knowledge, Spock had never behaved that way. Not towards her, at the very least.

"Lieutenant!" Liz Palmer looked up at her in surprise. Noticing Sudak at her heels, she added hurriedly, "Commissioner."

"As you were, Liz," Uhura sent her a reassuring smile. "Commissioner, this is Lieutenant Elizabeth Palmer, my deputy and our chief protocol specialist."

Sudak bowed his head slightly in the direction of the woman.

"What are you working on, Liz?"

"The report about the visit to Horellia," Palmer glanced at Uhura somewhat warily, as if questioning the wisdom of further explanations.

But the Communications Officer smiled pleasantly.

"Oh yes, the Horellia was a very special place, Commissioner," she intoned conversationally. "The mission didn't go quite so well, I'm afraid. Those people have a set of rules that would shame any other society known. Their customs are most unusual."

"It would have been logical to study them prior to the visit."

"Indeed," she added a teasing note in her voice, making Sudak's eyebrows crease slightly. "But I'm afraid that would have been impossible. Their social database, it appears, occupies more computer space than three Constitution-class starships possess. It is a very meticulous society."

"We studied their welcoming protocols thoroughly," Palmer looked as if it was painful to remember. "And it seemed at first that all have gone well. But in the end they said that we were the worst kind of barbarians they had ever met."

"Don't take it to heart, Liz," Uhura laughed, patting her on the shoulder. "For all we know, it could have been Chekov's singing that made them squirm."

"Illogical," Sudak stated.

Uhura turned her smile on him, like a phaser.

"I quite agree. But it can all be found in the ship's log, Commissioner. The Captain is very thorough in keeping records. Shall we go on?"

He studied her face for a moment longer, then nodded. She glanced at Palmer.

"Thanks, Liz."

They walked along a row of separated cubicles.

"This is where our translators and encode/decode specialists work," Uhura said. "The universal translator can only get you as far. Whenever we make contact with new species, we set up a team to study their languages. At times they are most exotic."

"You seem to be enthusiastic about this experience."

She looked at him with a mixture of bewilderment and challenge.

"What's not to like? I'm in Communications for a reason, Commissioner. I have always been enchanted by the ability to speak to people from other worlds as if there were no barriers between us. You know what they say? Language is the key to the people's heart. Understand it—and you will understand how the society lives. Its history, its traditions, the relations between its members—it's all encrypted in the language."

"An intriguing concept, if not entirely accurate," he noted. "How many languages do you speak, Lieutenant?"

She shrugged.

"I'm fluent in eleven Earth languages. As for other species, I speak three of the five Andorian dialects, the High Rigellian, the basic Tellarite, and some rudimentary Orion. Oh," she blushed slightly, "and Vulcan, of course."

"Indeed?" he switched purposefully to his native tongue. "That is an impressive list, Lieutenant. Do these studies not interfere with your work?"

She felt her cheeks getting warmer, as she tensed involuntarily, listening to his flowing speech, determined not to miss a word.

"My work only benefits," she replied, carefully choosing the Vulcan words. "I update my technical qualifications regularly, Commissioner. There is no cause for concern."

He regarded her with well-tamed curiosity.

"Your pronunciation is very good... for a human."

She blushed, but tilted her chin up resolutely.

"I had a very good tutor."

That had definitely produced a reaction of some kind, but she couldn't decipher it.

"Indeed? Tell me, Lieutenant," he was speaking Standard again. "Have you obtained sufficient knowledge of Vulcan language to understand my people's 'heart'?"

Boldly, she met his strict eyes. "I haven't even come close, Commissioner. But it is my intention to continue."

"I see," he maintained his scrutiny for a while longer, then, released her from the hold of his gaze. "Thank you for the excursion, Lieutenant. And for the conversation."

Without further ado, he turned and walked out of the room.

"Well," Palmer said, coming over to her. "That was unexpected."

"What do you mean?" Uhura snapped.

"The inspection," Palmer replied, taken aback slightly. "What did you think I meant?"

"Nothing," Uhura shook her head and smiled blandly. "I'm sorry, Liz. It's just... he trips me out."

"I've noticed," Liz grinned at her. "Here, you've got another message from Theodore."

Uhura flinched, taking the data chip with a shaky hand.

"Thanks."

"Aren't you gonna watch it?"

"I know what he's got to say. I promised him that this mission would be the last and that we'd get married after I returned. It's the third time he's sent me a reminder and asked to talk."

Palmer watched her sympathetically.

"Isn't it what you want?"

"I don't know what I want anymore," Uhura sighed, wrapping her arms around her, as if trying to bodily pull herself together. "I gave that promise five years ago. I haven't even seen him in five years. I've changed, can't he understand that? I'm not sure..."

"You're not sure you love him?"

"It's not that," she said evasively. "Oh hell, Liz... I'm not sure I want a life on Earth anymore. When I had joined Starfleet, it seemed like an interesting experience. To see other planets, meet other species. It was exciting, it was an adventure. Five years ago, I thought I'd have enough by now. I thought I'd be ready to settle down. Only I'm not ready, Liz," Uhura lifted her tortured eyes at her. "This tour of duty, the _Enterprise_ —it changed me somehow. The things we've done... I can't explain it. When I think of how the Captain had fought that Gorn to save us all, of how Mr. Spock had taken the shuttle into that amoeba thing, how Scotty had found a way to reenergize the entire world, I just—I can't do it. We've all been a part of it. Each of us was needed here. I know some people who would not have been able to stand to the dangers of it, but I did. I have never thought that of myself. I'd been frightened out of my wits so many times, but I've always managed to do my job somehow. A lot of people can't do that. I'm not saying that I'm a galactic hero, but I've seen my share of risks and I could take it. I might have trembled, but I didn't back away. I never thought that I'd prove to be officer material, but I did! Why should I sit tight on Earth when my Captain, my shipmates need me? To think that the _Enterprise_ is going to leave Earth on another mission and I will not be on board..."

"You don't know if we'd get another mission," Palmer noted reasonably.

"Of course, we will," Uhura dismissed the notion casually. "You know the Captain; he always gets what he wants."

Palmer pursed her lips, but didn't answer. She could understand Uhura's frustration. Her courage and redoubtable spirit had earned her profound respect and admiration from her subordinates and superiors. Palmer remembered vividly, how efficient Uhura had been in command when all the male crewmembers had been incapacitated by alien amazons. The Captain had given her the highest commendation for her resolution of that crisis, and her staff had been proud of her beyond words. It seemed indeed a tremendous shame that Nyota was facing this impossible choice now, when she had finally found her footing. It was unfair.

"I should be on the Bridge," Uhura said, straightening up abruptly. "Damn this Sudak. He's determined to throw me off balance."

"I think he likes you," Palmer grinned. "Maybe you should—"

"Maybe _you_ should get back to your report," Uhura advised her with mock severity. "I don't want our department to rate below everyone else on the ship."

"Aye-aye, sir," still grinning, Liz headed back to her desk.

With a decisive sigh, Uhura walked out of the room, leaving her alone with her work.


	6. Internal Investigations

In a week since the attack on Talouba, the _Enterprise_ was still on passive patrol. They had started for the most promising direction indicated by Sulu and Spock's analysis, and were dutifully perusing system by system, trying to locate the elusive criminals. The ship was constantly on Yellow Alert, but the experienced crew had no difficulty adjusting to that condition. It was just another long mission. Life seemed to be returning back to normal. Except for Sudak's presence, the ship felt as it always had.

"I don't like him," McCoy declared resolutely, glancing around the crowded Officers' Mess.

Spock felt his eyebrow crawl up, as he inserted his meal card into the replicator slot.

"Even for a human, it is highly illogical to like or dislike someone before you even know them."

"Spock, I _don't_ know him and I _already_ don't like him. Can you imagine how I would feel if I do get to know him?"

"I pride myself on my imagination, Doctor, but your irrational tendencies far exceed my limits."

McCoy snorted, retrieving his tray.

"Yeah, it'll be a cold day in hell before you can catch up with me, Spock."

"It would be a most unfortunate day, no doubt," Spock conceded, as they started together for their table. "The kind of chaotic gibberish you call your thought patterns would unquestionably render any Vulcan permanently insane."

"Well, I think you already are most of the time, you pointy-eared green-blooded... Oh, hello, Commissioner."

The Vulcan looked up at them, as they were passing his table.

"Doctor McCoy. Mr. Spock."

Spock bowed his head politely, "Commissioner Sudak."

They walked the rest of the way in silence.

"Took you forever," Kirk noted, taking a bite of his sandwich and watching McCoy and Spock slide into seats across from him. As usual when they happened in the Officers' Mess together, they had a table to themselves. "Was there a problem?"

"Not unless you call the second Vulcan aboard one ship a problem," McCoy frowned, glancing over the room and catching Sudak watching them. "Now that's what I call a friendly stare. Spock, I think he expected you to sit with him."

Spock, who was about to tuck in his salad, lowered the fork. He looked a bit uncertainly at the Captain, then at the Doctor, and his hands reached for his tray again, as he started to rise from his seat.

"Hey!" As if on cue, both humans reached immediately to grab one of his wrists. Kirk seized the left one, and McCoy caught the right, and they tugged Spock swiftly back in place.

"Where do you think you're going?" McCoy demanded.

"I was under the impression that you were trying to get rid of me, Doctor," Spock said dryly, picking up his fork again.

"What, and lose my favorite pincushion? You wish."

"You're not going to deprive us of your company completely just because another Vulcan came on board, are you, Mr. Spock?" Kirk was smiling gently at his First Officer, his hand only now sliding off from Spock's wrist. "You're babysitting him around the clock—can't you at least have lunch with us? I feel like I'll soon have to make an appointment to discuss ship's business with you, not to mention anything else."

"Really, Spock, I think the guy has far more than enough of your attention as it is," McCoy noted thoughtfully. "Not that I mind that you're off my back for a change, but it's kinda weird. He spends double as much time in your department, than in any other area of the ship. Your staff's gonna be climbing the walls soon. He's always on the Bridge when you are, and now he's even matching his meal schedule to yours. If he weren't a Vulcan, I'd think he had a grudge against you."

"That, or he's trying to hit on you," Kirk's tone was slightly amused. "Anything you want to tell us, Spock?"

Spock laid his fork down again and glanced from one human to the other, his stricken expression conveying his irritation far better than other people's grimaces.

"Gentlemen, I do not believe that either your observations or interpretations are correct. The Commissioner spends more time inspecting my department because he expects me to stand up to a higher standard."

McCoy glared at him, forgetting his own meal.

"Well, it's certainly nice to know that you haven't lost your touch, Spock," he hissed angrily. "It took another Vulcan to remind you to treat us as utterly inferior species?"

"Bones," Kirk spared him a soothing glance, before turning back to Spock. His tone had lost its lightness. "Really, Spock. That was meaner than usual."

Spock's cheeks colored slightly.

"My apologies, Captain," he glanced sideways at McCoy. "Doctor. I meant no offence."

"And since you meant no offence, we shouldn't take any, is that what you're saying?" McCoy snapped.

Spock sighed quietly and lowered his eyes.

"I really meant no offence," he reiterated, sounding mildly subdued. "There is a pronounceable difference in... the style of command of humans and Vulcans. The Commissioner does not consider himself a proper judge of how humans should deal with humans as long as it is in accordance with the letter of Regulations. However, since I am a fellow Vulcan, he expects me to maintain the level of discipline and efficiency in my department suitable for a Vulcan crew. He finds that I do not perform my duty... satisfactory in this regard."

"Satisfactory?" Kirk stared at him, surprised and slightly angered. "Spock, the Science Section performance ratings are higher even than those of Engineering. Your department is operating at 98 percent of efficiency. What the hell does Sudak find wrong with it?"

"98.8 to be exact, Captain, and it is quite clear what bothers the Commissioner," Spock replied calmly.

"You don't say," McCoy snorted. "He wonders where in blazes 1.2 percent has gone?"

Spock fixed him with a forbidding stare. "For a Vulcan ship, that would have been a significant discrepancy, Doctor."

"But we are not a Vulcan ship, Mr. Spock," Kirk objected. "He can't really expect humans to emulate Vulcan behavior just because you happened to be their commanding officer. Where's the logic in that?"

"You are proceeding under a false assumption, Captain. It is not my human staff that Sudak believes to perform non-satisfactory. It is me."

"You, Spock?" the Captain stared at him in amazement. "Forgive me, but is that a joke?"

"I do not joke, Captain, and neither does Sudak," Spock frowned slightly. "He believes—and I share his view in the matter—that I spend too much time engaged in social activities with my human colleagues. The time that could be spent for more productive purposes."

"Spock, you lost me there," Kirk admitted, nonplussed. "What social activities? The _Enterprise_ is not a cruise liner, and even when we do have a party, on Christmas or something, you never attend, unless I order you to. What the devil is this about?"

Spock met his confused gaze calmly.

"This is about our chess games, Captain," he said, holding the hazel eyes with his easily. "My music sessions with Lieutenant Uhura. My experiments in botany with Mr. Sulu. My discussions with the good Doctor."

"Now, hold up just a damn minute, Spock," McCoy frowned at him. "You're not a blasted computer, regardless of how often I call you that. You're entitled to have a break every now and then along with the rest of us. What you do in your free time is nobody's—"

"Doctor, for Vulcans, there can be no 'free' time, as in time not devoted to studying or perfecting one's virtues. The activities I mentioned hardly qualify as either."

"But everyone needs to unwind sometimes," McCoy protested. "To do something for relaxation, for fun. To enjoy themselves a little. Even your father admits it, Spock."

"I regret, Doctor, that you do not have an opportunity to discuss the subject with him," Spock noted dryly. "This would have been undoubtedly an interesting debate."

"It might have resulted in bloodshed," Kirk commented.

"I did not realize that you knew my father so well, Captain."

"I do know Doctor McCoy, Mr. Spock."

"Jim! Anyway, we're living beings and that's what life is all about."

"That is not so for Vulcans, Doctor. Enjoyment is not a goal to be pursued by a well-organized mind. Any activities that serve no useful purpose are unnecessary and must be terminated."

"But they do serve a useful purpose," Kirk objected softly. "They make you happy."

Spock turned his opaque gaze on him.

"So do the tribbles, Captain, yet you were quite adamant in your desire to get them off the ship," he leaned back in his chair, looking pensive. "Happiness is an emotional state. Vulcans must control their emotions at all times, as you know very well. It would be illogical, therefore, to consciously wish to achieve happiness."

"That is the most redundant thing I've ever heard you say, Spock, in all the five years that I've known you," McCoy proclaimed indignantly.

"Four point six years, Doctor," Spock corrected him smoothly. "And no, I did not expect you to understand."

"Then, why do you keep doing it, Spock?" Kirk asked quietly. "Why do you waste time learning duets with Uhura? Why do you play chess with me? You are the most rational person I know. If that is all so illogical and useless, why do you do it? To humor us?"

Spock tilted his head slightly and regarded Kirk, with a thoughtful but wary expression in his eyes. His voice sounded just as quietly, as Kirk's had.

"Must you ascertain my motivation, Jim? Is it not enough..." but he trailed off, dropping his gaze to his plate.

McCoy glanced from Spock to Kirk in alarm, but the Captain's eyes remained glued to his First Officer.

"Would you two mind talking aloud for once?" the Doctor demanded irritably. "What's not enough? That you keep doing it? If that's some sort of charity on your part, Spock, you might as well save it. You might as well stop petting us, stupid humans, if those things are really something so illogical that no decent Vulcan would care for them."

Spock glanced up at him quizzically, one eyebrow on the lift.

"Doctor, I thought that making me as indecent as possible for a Vulcan was your lifelong ambition."

Kirk shook his head, not amused.

"That doesn't quite answer the question, Spock."

The Vulcan turned to look at him, his expression suddenly stern and closed.

"Sir, I must ask you to excuse me. Mr. Scott has requested that I examine the new plasma manifolds. He believes there is an inefficiency and would like a second opinion."

For a moment, Kirk held his gaze, trembling inwardly with an urge to pin Spock to the wall and get the answers out of him, by force if necessary. But his command training came in just as strong as Spock's Vulcan discipline at certain times. No sign of his inner fight made it to the surface. He nodded curtly.

"Dismissed."

The Vulcan lost no time leaving.

"Like a proverbial bat out of hell," McCoy muttered in bewilderment. "You'd think the ship was on fire. What's going on, Jim?"

Kirk shrugged gravely.

"I wish I knew."

He rose up, folding his tray and Spock's to take them to the dispenser. The Vulcan was in such a rush to leave, he uncharacteristically forgot to take care of it.

"You haven't finished your meal, Jim," McCoy protested, watching him.

"Guess I'm not hungry," Kirk grimaced. The 'anymore' hung in the air. "I'd better get back to the Bridge. You take your time, Bones."

"Sure," McCoy sighed unenthusiastically. "As I'm the only responsible adult here... ah, hell, I hate to eat alone."

In a moment, the table resumed its welcoming and completely unoccupied air.

 

 

\--

"I'm telling you, something isn't right here."

Uhura sighed, putting her fork down. She scanned her lunch companion with a patient gaze.

"You're right," she said. "Something isn't right. Chekov is the 'something isn't right at all times' kind of guy. I'd really think that after all those years, you'd know it."

"It's more than that," Sulu shook his head with grim determination. "He's never shut me out quite like that. I went as far as calling him a sourpuss."

"Ouch. Trouble there. What'd he say?"

"He said I paid him a compliment, because in Russia, being a sourpuss apparently means being a closet genius."

Uhura chuckled.

"Well, maybe he is."

"Maybe," Sulu agreed rather sulkily. "But I'm beginning to suspect he only said that to divert my attention."

For a moment, she stared at him incredulously, then burst out laughing.

"What?" he said defensively.

"Oh, Sulu, you really are something," she choked, still giggling. "Don't quit your day job to become a counselor."

"I don't—"

"Of course, he said that to divert your attention. He's been doing it for years, haven't you noticed? Every time he pulls another one of his 'Russian invention' stories, people forget immediately what they had been talking about a moment ago and go for it. He's been using this trick so often, I was beginning to wonder if anyone would ever notice," she shook her head in disbelief.

Sulu looked slightly baffled.

"I've never thought of that. You think he never really meant it?"

She shrugged indulgently.

"I'm sure he did, sometimes. But mostly I don't think so. I believe we could trust Chekov to know what comes in handy when he finds the subject too uncomfortable for some reason."

Sulu frowned.

"When did he get so smart? Only yesterday he was just a kid."

Uhura rolled her eyes.

"Not anymore. I actually think he'd do well working for Starfleet Intelligence."

"Nah," Sulu downed the last of his coffee. "He wants to be a starship captain."

Uhura looked at him pensively.

"I don't think he'd be a happy captain with a happy crew, though. Pasha is somewhat... reserved to really reach out to people."

"You mean he's a loner? He is. But then, so is Captain Kirk."

"Is he?" Uhura smiled suddenly, watching across the room Spock's attempt to swap places being stopped effectively by Kirk and McCoy. "I don't know, Hikaru. He might have accepted the loneliness that command imposes, but apart from that, Jim Kirk is the most social-oriented creature I know."

"I'm not very social," Sulu said defensively.

"Really?" her smile became offensively sweet. "Then, I must have imagined fifteen people cramped into your quarters last week—'to discuss poetry.' Or the dinner you served us all on your birthday. Or," her grin was now positively impish, "our last shoreleave."

Sulu shook his head reminiscently, slightly red in the face.

"Guilty as charged. So Chekov's going to have a different command style, so what? Doesn't mean he won't make a good captain someday."

"I didn't say he wouldn't. I just don't think he'd be a happy captain, that's all."

"What about you?" he asked suddenly, looking at her, as if seeing for the first time. "You never told us about your plans."

She bit her lip, glancing around the room, while collecting her thoughts.

"I'm not obsessed with becoming a captain, that's for sure," she said finally.

"First officer, then," he grinned at her and winked.

"Don't get your hopes up, Mister," she rebuffed, with an ever-present smile. "I've been carrying this rank longer than you. And I don't think you'd want someone who saw you fencing naked when you were drunk silly as your first officer anyway."

Sulu blushed. "I wasn't naked."

She raised her eyebrows eloquently.

"If you say so. But I believe it's the only reason you got yourself a date with Ensign DeVega."

"You're right," he shook his head. "I don't want you as my first officer. You'd drive me nuts with stuff like this. How do you even remember it? It was almost four years ago."

She shrugged. "I just do. Look," she rose to her feet rather abruptly, "I'm sorry to break this up, but I promised Liz to go through her report with her. If you don't mind?"

"Why would I?" he picked a leaf from her plate before she took it away. "Better harass her than me. See you around."

She left in a hurry, making a believable show of not noticing Sudak, who was obviously headed her way. The Vulcan stopped for a moment, disoriented. Sulu grinned.

"A man wasn't born who could keep up with her," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. "She's a force of nature."

After a moment of hesitation, the Commissioner turned and walked out of the room in his usual dignified pace.


	7. Then and Now

Scott stared at the specs in disgust. Exchanging an exasperated glance with Gabler, he asked rhetorically, "Are they kidding?"

His deputy shrugged, shades of the same revulsion creasing his features, though far from the same extent.

"I should have been there," Scotty sighed. "Shoulda gone to that blasted conference and told that pompous idiot Leroux to mind his bloody theories and leave my engines alone. Would ye look at that?" He jabbed his finger at the screen as if squabashing a louse. "What in bloody hell's he thinking putting plasma injectors next to the anti-matter inducers? I'm telling ye, lad, he's a raving maniac, that one."

"It's a bit unusual to put them there," Gabler said cautiously.

"Unusual?" Scott growled. "It's plain suicide, that's what it is! We run into Romulans, Klingons, and hell knows who else who wants to take a shot at us, and ye know what they target first? ENGINES! The bloody bastards always target the engines as soon as they can knock our shields out. Aye, granted, we're shielded. But what's the point? When we're in serious trouble—and we're always in serious trouble—the shields go off faster than the Captain can say 'damage report.' And then, we take blow after blow, and the whole system's inhibited, controls fused. Ye know what happens when anti-matter inducers' controls get fused?"

Gabler knew the answer, but he sincerely doubted that the Chief Engineer needed him in that conversation.

"The engines will superheat if the matter flow's not stopped!" Scott declared, confirming Gabler's assumption. "And ye know what'll happen then? We'll blow up like a Christmas cracker! And how, can ye tell me, are we supposed to stop the matter flow if the plasma injectors are outta reach? Or worse—the controls are fused? It happens, lad. Just because they now put these things in a tin can, doesn't mean it'll be safe!"

"The screens are composed of bunterein alloy," Gabler offered warily. "You know it can withstand higher temperatures and stresses. The tests show—"

"The tests!" Scotty exclaimed indignantly, and Gabler bit his tongue. "The tests that are run in a lab, not under Tholian fire. Ye know why? Because under Tholian fire it'll be too late to say, 'Sorry, we miscalculated.' The bloody theorists..."

Instinctively, Gabler searched for a way to slip away. He had been an unwilling part of this kind of conversation with his commanding officer too many times recently, not to know exactly the outcome of every new turn. Scott had been brooding for weeks and weeks now, maybe even months. Gabler couldn't remember the last time he had seen his boss in a cheerful or at least not grumpy mood. It felt like more than a year. But Scott's grunting was something they had become quite used to. The youngest and the boldest on the engineering staff had even found it amusing, while for the veterans it had been something of an indispensable part of the _Enterprise_ Engine Room.

However, when the Headquarters started to supply them with the specs for the ship's refit, Scott's grunting transformed into vast, long and heated tirades about 'witless engineers who hadn't seen an engine room in their lives' and their ideas, of which Scott was hardly approving. Scott found something wrong with every new suggestion, and if anyone pointed out to him that the modification in question was, in fact, reasonable, he went positively berserk.

'Reasonable! Reasonable they tell me! Had they asked me, I woulda told them that ye don't have time to look at their fancy diagrams in battle. Had they asked me, I woulda told them that when the Captain orders to switch everything save for life-support and sometimes even that to either shields or phasers, ye don't have the time to go through five-level converting process! Had they asked me, I woulda told them what to go do with themselves and their heads! The stupidest ideas I have never heard in my life!'

Gabler sighed, watching Scott moving away from the specs in disgust and walking towards the main reactor chamber. A capable engineer himself, Gabler saw, of course, that the new specs weren't without flaws. But then, they were also not without some highly practical ideas. Besides, Starfleet Command sent them those in advance exactly so that they could offer their suggestions. For Scott, however, it wasn't good enough.

'I have been with this ship for sixteen years. Nobody knows it the way I do. Ye'd think they coulda asked me first.'

Junior staffers shrugged at that, dismissing it as a hurt ego. Gabler doubted that was the case. Of all the engineering personnel he had served with Scott the longest, two and a half years. Two weeks into his transfer to the _Enterprise_ , he thought he knew everything about Montgomery Scott there was to know. Two and a half years later, he realized that what he had known was perhaps one tenth of the iceberg. But bruised ego was the last of Scott's worries, of that Gabler was absolutely certain.

Scott worked.

Boy, how he worked. Obsessively, fixatedly, zealously. He worked every moment ship's duties could spare him, rarely stopping for food and even more rarely for sleep. He restlessly fought for new ideas, trying to think of everything and to try everything. He tried to create a team to work on the modifications together, but found little support among his staff. They were all homesick by the end of the mission, and very unwilling to take part in anything that wasn't obligatory. Redesigning the engines certainly wasn't in their job description and they quite honestly didn't want to bother.

The Captain was sympathetic. He patted Scott on the back and advised to take it easy. 'There will be plenty of time for that on Earth, Scotty. Of course, they can't dismiss someone with your experience and knowledge. Don't mind them too much—they have to do something while we're out here doing all the hard work.'

Doctor McCoy took a more pessimistic attitude. 'You're fighting windmills, Scotty,' he had said, before suggesting strongly the Engineer had better taken a decent meal every once in a while, not to mention a good night's sleep.

But Scott did find one ally in his crusade after all, one with technical knowledge and stamina to compete with his own. Spock was hardly capable of providing reassurance or comfort. Even if he knew exactly what was happening to the Chief Engineer, he never showed the slightest wish to discuss it. How he even had known that something was happening eluded Gabler, but one night he came down to Scott's office.

'I know you are working on the new schematics for anti-matter inducers, Mr. Scott. May I be of assistance?'

Gabler remembered his own awkward attempts to offer his services to Scott. He was rebuffed in a way he had never been before, not by Scott, anyway. Maybe Scott thought that one of the youngsters was taking pity of him, or maybe he didn't believe him smart enough, Gabler didn't know. He had never approached Scott with this matter again, though he did get an impression that after initial cool reception of the idea among his younger staff, the Engineer had cooled down somewhat. When the First Officer turned up on his doorstep, Gabler had fully expected him to be thrown out just as he had been. But, to his surprise, Scott sighed and motioned Spock inside.

It made sense, he thought afterwards. Being a very private man himself, Spock would ask no questions and wouldn't dream of exploring Scott's motives, but rather would be completely practical about the whole affair. Besides, hardly any of the crew had ever stopped to think that Spock and Scott were the only two people among them who had served together for that long—and on that very ship.

It was easy to disregard that notion. Scarcely anyone would dare as to call them friends. It was common knowledge that the Vulcan was extraordinary close to the Captain. Scott, with all his friendliness and kind heart, was close to no one, though many had tried.

But, friends though they were not, there was an unmistakable rapport between them, which could only grow from the years of serving together, of moving on parallel courses. Most certainly, they knew each other's capabilities better than any other person on board, with very few exceptions. This deep understanding (if not necessarily approval) of what the other would do at any given time had saved the ship numerous times before. It made sense that Spock was the only person with the required level of competence that Scott was willing to allow assisting him in his endeavor.

Gabler remembered overhearing them talking one night, as he passed by the Chief Engineer's office. Involuntarily, he slowed his pace to listen.

'Do ye ever miss those days, Spock?' Scott was asking, with sad wistfulness in his voice that was totally unfamiliar to his subordinate. He almost sounded nostalgic. 'Do ye ever miss... him?'

Whoever they were talking about, Gabler fully expected to hear something like, 'Vulcans find the emotional reaction of 'missing' someone illogical.' He was not prepared for Spock's next words.

'Sometimes,' the sadness in that deep low voice was surprisingly well-recognizable. 'However, I... draw comfort from the knowledge that he is happy.'

'Aye,' Scott sounded bitter. 'But that's no way to go, if ye ask me.'

'You disapprove of the action I had taken?'

'Nay,' a soft chuckle. 'Ye'd never made it to Talos, if I did. But that's still no way to go. Not for such a man, not for him.'

'No,' Spock agreed quietly. 'Not for him.'

It was the most personal conversation Gabler had ever heard Scott take part in, and he was shell-shocked. Most of them assumed he had no deep feelings for anybody. Some speculated that there was a long-lost love waiting for him on Earth or elsewhere, but Gabler never believed those rumors. Scott might have been a very private person, but he had never been good in hiding his emotions. On those few occasions, when he had been totally smitten by some 'bonny lass,' there was hardly a person aboard who was left unaware of that fact.

Lieutenant Uhura once joked that when Scotty fell in love, the ship's sun started to rise in Engineering, not on the Bridge.

The analogy was perhaps only too keen, Gabler thought. When Scott developed romantic feelings for someone and they were reciprocated, like when Lieutenant Mira Romain was on board, there was no other word for it—Scotty beamed. He beamed constantly, spreading steady rays of sunlight and warmth around him wherever he went and whatever he was doing. The whole ship reveled in this glow, and even the most audacious dared only the lightest teasing on the subject. It was as if they were suddenly seeing another man and marveled at how much he actually had to offer. But then, the shining moment was over, all too quickly, and Scott reverted to his usual grumpy darkened state.

No, Gabler was certain that if there was a loving creature waiting for Scott somewhere, guiding him among the stars with the force of its love, they would have known about it. The Engineer was good at hiding the sources of his blues, but sharing his happiness was as natural a thing for him as breathing. It was a pity, Gabler thought, that he so rarely had it to share.

It took some doing, some sniffing around and asking careful questions of those who had been aboard the longest, to discover the real subject of the overheard conversation. After he realized just who they had been discussing, Gabler found he was not all that surprised. In fact, he should have thought about it earlier. Surely, there was only one man who could invoke similar feelings of devotion and unity between two such different people as Scott and Spock.

They had been talking about Christopher Pike, the former Captain of the _Enterprise_.

Christopher Pike, the Unforgettable.

The name signified an epoch in space exploration and in Starfleet history. Those were the days when humans, even backed up reluctantly by the entire Federation, had to be so very careful in their walk across the galaxy. They had to feel their way, rather than go boldly, which did not prevent them from going boldly anyway.

But not recklessly. There had been too many unknowns, too many unlearnt lessons. Too many ships that had been lost, too many crews. Coming from a family of spacers, Gabler often heard it said that the discipline on board was much more formidable, as dictated by the dangerous realm of the galaxy. Things were changing and were changing rapidly, but there were still a lot of those who remembered the way they used to be and mourned those times.

They cared less for crews' comforts, than for their safety back then. They pressed firmer on the regulations, for they were fighting for survival, and the galaxy did not forgive mistakes. Officers of the line were required to carry the burdens that the cadets graduating from Starfleet Academy this very year could not possibly imagine. It took very special men to serve through those trials, and Christopher Pike was undoubtedly one of the brightest stars of that epoch. Gabler heard they were going to rename one of the highest Starfleet awards for valor after him.

The _Enterprise_ senior officers were all the products of that system, though to a different degree.

Kirk had been exposed to it the least, but long enough for it to make a profound impact on his character. But he was always the one looking into the future, and his style of command reflected that. He was much more tolerant, flexible and open than any of the previous generation of starship captains, Pike included. He was thus, because he was James T. Kirk and because in the current shape of the galaxy he could afford it. He could afford to be relaxed, when Pike wouldn't have dreamt of dropping his guard even for an instant. He could afford to forgive, because he, too, was forgiven where Pike would have paid dearly for a moment's slip. He could afford to surround himself with friends where Pike had always had to stand on his own.

Spock had been in the service almost as long as Scott, but for him the evolution was less painful. As a Vulcan, he considered change to be a natural part of life, and as such, it was easier to accept.

Scott was the one whose character was forged when the epoch was at its peak. There was a first time for everything, and first times always made the strongest impact. The service, as it had been in those days, was imprinted on him the moment he had joined it, and that imprint he carried throughout his life.

He was far from being conservative or defy progress, though people did get that impression sometimes. He simply maintained that there were rules of conduct, which every man must abide by as long as he wanted to be called thus. He was a man of principle, a man of honor, who took his professional and personal obligations seriously at all times. He could not fathom why it was suddenly demanded of him to change, just because the universe around him had done so.

"Mr. Gabler," Scott called from behind a divider. "I might need a hand in here."

Gabler started, snatched out of his reflections by a sudden request for assistance.

"Aye, Mr. Scott," he walked over to the Chief Engineer hurriedly.

He turned around the corner to see Scott staring at the warp reactor dynamics with a frown on his face.

"I don't think I like it," he muttered under his breath. Then, turning to Gabler, said louder, "Watch those monitors for me, will ye? There's something funny about the anti-matter stream, I wanna make sure."

"Yes, sir."

Scott disappeared into the lower technical tube, where it was only possible to walk in a half-bent fashion.

"They want to make something better," he grunted, "they might wanna think of making it possible to straighten one's back in here."

Scotty wasn't sure he knew what tipped him off, but the ship felt wrong. He remembered vividly the last time he had got this impression, and it didn't add a positive streak to his apprehension. He opened the outer plate and lowered it to the deck, watching the greenish flow of energy inside the conduit.

It rippled.

He stared at it for a long moment, trying to decide whether it was a trick of light. But no, there it went again, like the surface of a lake touched by a gentle breeze. He could almost see the tiny bubbles protruding from within the stream.

His heart began to pound, as he started to realize the significance of the image. He couldn't see it through yet, but what he did see was bad enough already.

"Gabler!" he yelled, rushing towards the primary junction board. "Contact the Bridge, tell them we have a serious problem. Tell them not to drop out of warp, whatever they do."

"Sir?"

"If we drop outta warp, we're gonna blow up."

"Yes, sir! Relaying!"

Scotty was far from paying him any more attention. He knew that the Captain would be frantic for explanations, but he also knew that Kirk would rather cut his own arm off than ignore his Chief Engineer's warning. As long as they stayed at warp, he had time to think of something.

He heard vaguely the heated discussion over the comm, but couldn't afford to get distracted. It was clear to him now that somewhere further along the conduit channel something, most likely a magnetic resonator, was creating a disturbance in the anti-matter stream. The sensors didn't pick it up; they only showed the location of the source of the disturbance.

It must have been inserted there manually, Scotty mused. Once the warp drive was operational, it was possible, though highly dangerous, to insert any kind of divider into the stream. In fact, Scott remembered several occasions when he had had to do it himself, to split the stream. But this object, whatever it was, must be removed before the warp drive goes offline. The slightest misbalance between matter and anti-matter stream at the moment of their separation would trigger an uncontrolled reaction in the intermix chamber.

"Mr. Scott!" Gabler was rushing over to his side, slightly out of breath. "The Captain wants to know—"

"Take a look at that, Mr. Gabler," Scott cut him off snappishly.

It took his deputy only a moment of studying the monitors to realize what was happening. He shuddered.

"Seal off Engineering," Scott ordered. "Under no circumstances is anyone to enter. Tell the Captain, I'm gonna try to remove this thing manually—"

"But, Mr. Scott! It's practically inside the reactor!"

"If someone could have put it in there, lad, then I can certainly take it out. Get everybody outta here. I'll contact ye when I'm done."

"What if you fail, sir?"

Scott looked at him wryly.

"Ye won't be around to worry about that," he assured. "Get moving."

Gabler was gone. Scott lost no time watching him; he knew the lad was reliable and efficient. He glanced at the narrow angular tube which led towards the reactor. He would barely fit, there could be no question of taking the whole set of instruments with him. Besides, he couldn't risk disturbing the energy flow further. A subsonic driver would have to do.

He bent and slid headfirst into the tunnel, cursing under his breath. He knew it wasn't any hotter in there than anywhere else on the ship, yet he began to sweat, as a vision of his own whereabouts hit his mind. Stubbornly, he slid forward, pushing himself off the smooth walls, which were not designed for that purpose exactly. On and on, until he counted to the seventh port, where the sensors showed the beginning of the rift.

He took the panel off and had to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment, as the blinding flow of energy assaulted his vision. He cursed again, trying to see through. Sure enough, there was the foreign body. A resonator, just as he suspected.

Scott lost no time speculating as to who might have put it in there. If he could remove it, there would be time to dwell upon it later. If not, he wouldn't have enough time to die of curiosity.

He aimed the driver awkwardly at the object and activated the reverse pull. The ring of energy around him became suddenly louder, and he gripped his tool tighter reflexively. Carefully, slowly, the body moved towards the edge of the stream. What would happen when it crossed it? He didn't want to think about it just yet.

Vaguely, he heard the sound of Red Alert and felt thrown back in time for a moment. But this time, he didn't have a communicator, there was no countdown to be heard, and Spock's voice wasn't driving him mad with instructions.

He was alone.

The first angle of the foreign object had reached the border of the energy flow, and the field fluctuated, blinding him with yet another blast. He held his breath, counting seconds. He suddenly thought that it would have been symbolic in a sense if he failed. To die, swallowed by the unleashed power of the very heart of his ship. Yes, that might have been even fitting. If he were truly alone. If it served some unfathomable but desperately needed purpose.

But that was not the case, and, at any rate, he had held four hundred lives in his hands right now. And those hands were beginning to tremble from unprecedented pressure. He knew the radiation must be affecting him, too. For a moment, he wished he could ask Spock or McCoy if he had already received the lethal dosage. On the other hand, he decided he didn't want to know.

Slowly, so very slowly, the object came out fully, and Scott dropped it, unable to maintain his hold any longer. It hit him painfully in the chest, but he didn't care. He watched the energy stream steadily. It didn't break.

Swept by relief, he closed the port with shaky hands, his eyes shut in exhaustion. He made it. He could sense the ship's 'feel' returning back to normal again. Now, if he could only get back...

The task proved to be harder than the operation itself. Only now, that his adrenaline levels were dropping, Scotty realized his was dizzy and disoriented. It was a good thing, he thought vaguely, that one couldn't get lost in the tube they could barely fit. His breathing was becoming increasingly erratic, and he was starting to get nauseas. Not right now, he thought. If I get sick right now they wouldn't be able to clean this place for a week.

Suddenly he felt a grip of strong hands on his feet, and grunted faintly in surprise. He didn't realize he had reached the end of the tube. He relaxed, as several pairs of hands pulled him out of the tunnel and lowered carefully onto the deck. Dimly, he was aware of people talking to him, asking questions. He could only make out one face.

"Captain," he said, with what he believed to be a flippant grin. "We have a saboteur on board."

Whether Kirk said anything in reply, Scott never knew. He passed out.


	8. Twilight Watch

Kirk studied the padd for a moment in silence, then glanced up with a frown.

"Is this a joke?"

"No, sir," Giotto reported steadily. "You've asked me to prepare a list of people who had the opportunity and the capability to insert a foreign object into the ship's engines."

"Yes, but starting that list with the name of my Chief Engineer wasn't something I had in mind," the Captain retorted, rubbing his forehead. He _was_ tired. Ever since the incident took place, nearly ten hours ago, he had hardly stayed off his feet for more than five minutes. "Mr. Scott is still in Sick Bay with severe case of radiation poisoning. Doctor McCoy says he would have to undergo a full course of anti-radiation treatment, and if you don't know what it feels like, then you're one hell of a lucky man. Do you really think he would have gone through all that trouble if he were the one responsible?"

"Captain, I am making no accusations," the Security Chief responded calmly. "You asked me to prepare a list based on two criteria: Competence to do it and opportunity to do it. Mr. Scott had both. And for the record, it is not unheard of for one person to both create and remove the problem, thus gaining an advantage of being above reproach."

"Mr. Giotto," Kirk stared at him blankly. "Have you always been paranoid or is this a recent development?"

"I'm not paranoid, Captain. You've asked me—"

"Yes, yes, I remember. You're more literal than Spock sometimes. Tell me, why is he number two on your list? I don't know what surprises me more—that you consider him liable to sabotage the ship at all or that Mr. Scott appears to be even more liable than our First Officer."

"Commander Spock had both the ability and the opportunity, sir. I would also like to remind you that he had made several attempts to take control of this ship in the past."

Kirk pressed a hand to his lips in physical manifestation of his unwillingness to debate the absurd notion. He peeked at the list again.

"Mr. Chekov is here no doubt because of his remarkable prowess in engineering disciplines. He passed the test just last week, didn't he? I bet if he'd known it would get him such a nomination, he wouldn't have been quite so adamant to pass."

"Captain—"

"You know, Commander, I'm a little disappointed that _I'm_ not on this list," Kirk confessed. "Did you consider me unqualified?"

"No, sir," Giotto replied, unabashed. The Captain's tired irony slid off of him like water oft a duck's back. "But the object could only have been inserted while the ship was using impulse engines. You were accounted for during that time."

"I see. So these sixteen people—"

"These sixteen crewmembers were unaccounted for when we had last gone into warp for a sufficient amount of time to sabotage the engines. The estimation was made with regard of the Engineering shifts' rotation."

"I see," Kirk nodded, scanning the padd again. "And it doesn't bother you to include three Bridge officers to your list of prime suspects?"

"Sir, if you had allowed me, as I had suggested, to include the criterion of motive, two of those names would not have been there."

"Just two?" Kirk raised his eyebrows. "Pray tell, who wins the first prize?"

Giotto frowned slightly at his Captain's flippant attitude, but he decided he couldn't really blame him. He wished for a moment he had Mr. Spock's control over his reactions, not to mention the ability to affect the Captain's. But in this area the Vulcan was an unsurpassed master.

"Mr. Chekov would remain on the list, sir."

Kirk stared at him across the dimly lit Briefing Room. It was past twenty-three hundred hours, and the majority of the off-duty personnel were either already or still sleeping.

"What possible motive could Chekov have to do such a thing?" he asked, utterly bewildered and mildly alarmed.

"The saboteur is undoubtedly in league with the _Nailers_ ," Giotto explained. "And Mr. Chekov's background is not all that transparent. He has certain connections in other marginal groups, therefore a predilection towards—"

"Now, wait a minute," Kirk raised his hands, interrupting him. "You can't really hold something like that against him. Just because his ex-girlfriend decided to put on some strange garments and walk around the galaxy barefoot singing songs of love and freedom doesn't mean that he's a liability. Hell, if I were judged by what some of my ex-girlfriends are up to now, I'd probably be the greatest liability Starfleet has ever had."

"Forgive my bluntness, sir, but you are mistaken. None of your nine ex-girlfriends... in fact, none of all your twelve ex-paramours are known to have any ties with any radical movements. You realize, though, that I am only speaking of the people with whom you had longer than two-month relationships."

Kirk's jaw dropped.

"Commander," he choked finally, grateful as hell that he had not invited anyone else to this meeting. "Don't you think that you're a little—out of line?"

"No, sir, but if you believe so, I apologize. I'm just doing my job."

"By keeping tabs on my past... liaisons?"

"Sir. You are a starship captain. The power under your command is a considerable threat if put in the wrong hands. It is reasonable and responsible to identify all sources of potential influence on you."

"I see," Kirk swallowed, regaining some of his equilibrium. "I take it your memoirs will be a fascinating read."

"Sir," Giotto looked genuinely insulted. "I will never disclose personal information on my protectees to anyone. That would be a betrayal of all the principles we work under in Security."

"Yes, somehow, your job has just got a whole new meaning for me," the Captain noted dryly. "But I assume there must be some benefits for the kind of risks you're taking."

"Captain, I assure you—"

"I do not appreciate my private life to be a subject for your study," Kirk snapped. "And I would not tolerate it. This is none of your business."

"Sir, Starfleet Command—"

"Starfleet Command would do well to stay out of this. This is in violation—"

"Due respect, sir, it is not. Nobody spies on you, Captain. We merely keep record of what is common knowledge."

For a moment, Kirk was fighting his own temper. The logical, reasonable part of his mind was telling him that this was to be expected. He was a high ranking Starfleet officer, with access to information that held inestimable strategic value. And he probably couldn't very well argue that his past should remain his past, as far as Security was concerned. Not after Janice Lester's scheme to take his place. And yet, he felt suddenly so very open, so completely exposed, he wanted to rage and protest and maybe even hurt someone to ease the humiliation.

But his control over his impulses was too strong to let him act on them. Pursing his lips, he looked at Giotto squarely.

"Let's get back to Mr. Chekov. Other than his unwise choice of his past associations, do you have any other motive to suspect him?"

"He doesn't come with four-O in terms of security, Captain. We're running double-checks on his background. As soon as we learn something conclusive, I will report to you."

"Please, do," Kirk said curtly. "He's a fine young officer and I will hate to have him bear a stigma for something he had nothing to do with."

"Yes, sir."

"And, Mr. Giotto. Let's concentrate our resources on the investigation _aboard_ this ship."

"We are, Captain. My people are working around the clock."

"Good. But your people are somewhat... wanting in terms of technical and scientific background. No offense, Commander. Now that we have removed Mr. Spock's name from the suspects' list, I want you to cooperate with him fully."

"Yes, sir."

"Good then. Dismissed."

Watching him go, Kirk shook his head in utter dismay. For a moment, he couldn't help wondering if an obsessive Chief of Security was a forte or a weak spot for a starship.

 

 

\--

Kirk walked along the dim corridors to his cabin, still fuming. But as he strode on, the emotion had changed. Somehow, the initial anger had passed, and gradually there was only some tired sadness left.

Did he really have only twelve people who stayed with him for longer than two months in twenty years? If so, he had sacrificed for his career a bit too much. But then... He could not quite imagine staying in one place and doing... He didn't even know what he could be doing. He remembered his reaction to Doctor Daystrom's pronouncement that he was only frightened of losing the prestige that came along with captain's stripes. He had said, 'I can do a lot of other things.'

 _Yes_ , a tiny voice whispered mockingly in his ear. _Such as?_

He noticed that his route had brought him to Deck 5 from the opposite direction, and suddenly the way to his cabin seemed unbearably long. He barely glanced at the nameplate, before he entered the gloomy cabin without a buzz.

For several seconds, he just stood by the door, in mildly reddish twilight, allowing the warmer air to engulf him. McCoy disliked it, but Kirk had always found the effect relaxing.

Spock didn't look up at him from his desk terminal. Logical, of course. If there had been any emergency, Kirk would have said something instead of simply standing there in silence.

"I shall be with you in ten minutes forty-three seconds, Captain."

Even after all these years, such precision still made him smile. He shook his head slightly, relinquishing his post at the door, and made a couple of steps further in. His eyes slid over the sleeping area.

"You mind if I—?"

"Please."

He crossed around the partition and halted by the shelf, eyes searching. When he didn't find the item he was looking for, he frowned.

"You have gremlins visiting, Spock?"

He could feel the eyebrow climbing up, but the Science Officer didn't glance up still.

"In the cabinet."

"The gremlins?"

"The Tarkelian tea."

Kirk smiled, leaning down to retrieve the beverage. Spock was the only other person who liked Tarkelian tea the way he liked it—cold, stewed with a leaf or two of Earth mint. He poured himself a glass and looked around the room. There was nothing unfamiliar here, of course, but Spock's quarters had never quite lost their blandly enigmatic air to him. He glanced at the chair, feeling his spine twitching at the thought, and came to sit on the bed, drinking his tea. Seconds slid by, as the atmosphere was working on him steadily, and finally he gave in. Putting his glass on the bedside table, he stretched on the bed and closed his eyes.

Spock's bed was unlike any other on the ship. At first glance, it looked just as innocent and dull as any other standard bunk on the ship, and hardly anyone suspected it to hold any surprises. The secret was in the mattress. How many years ago Spock had replaced Starfleet issue with a Vulcan one, Kirk didn't know, but suspected that it happened at the first opportunity to arise. The key difference was that the mattress didn't sink in, even slightly, when weight was put on it. It pushed up. Just as any soft mattress would trace the contours of the body, so this one did, but instead of going down under pressure, it lifted the body up, following its lines precisely. Not very high, just several millimeters, but enough to create an illusion of floating. It was a frightening sensation at first. But after one got used to it, it was extremely relaxing. Kirk didn't notice when he dozed off.

He woke up with a start as a warm hand touched his forehead. In a split second, when he couldn't remember where he was, he reacted instinctively, catching the wrist and twisting it, swift and hard, to make the supposed attacker pause.

The hand, which he held captive, remained limp and inoffensive.

"Sorry," Kirk muttered releasing it, as he met Spock's eyes.

Sitting in a chair beside the bed, the Vulcan merely lifted an eyebrow, watching him with concern.

"Sorry," Kirk sighed, feeling his heart racing from a sudden start. "I didn't mean to fall asleep. How long have I—?"

"Only several minutes. I would have let you sleep, but I believe you have a headache. I also sense you are troubled by something."

Kirk snorted quietly. "Anything else, Doctor? Or are we playing Mother-hen tonight?"

The eyebrow went up again.

" _We_ are not playing anything, to the best of my knowledge. _You_ are, apparently, practicing in evading a question."

"Praise from the master."

Spock let the jibe slide, waiting patiently. He would not be surprised, if the Captain stood up and walked out in a minute. Sometimes a moment of shared silence was all they needed. But it did not feel like that tonight. Kirk seemed to be collecting himself for something. He met Spock's eyes almost uncertainly.

"May I ask a personal question?"

"You may ask me anything you wish."

"In the last twenty years, how many times have you been in a real relationship with someone?"

"And by 'real relationship' you mean—?"

"Oh, you know. Planning a future together. Thinking of having kids."

Spock leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers thoughtfully.

"One."

"One?" Kirk stared at him.

"To fit the parameters you described—"

It dawned.

"Oh. You mean—"

"T'Pring," Spock's eyes glinted. "Why is it that you are always hesitant to say her name in my presence? I assure you, I harbor no ill feelings toward her."

Kirk blushed slightly.

"Well, I do," he snapped. "She's a..."

Spock raised an eyebrow, but otherwise remained unperturbed.

"That language is hardly becoming," he remarked calmly when Kirk was done. "Not to mention that it is highly improbable for all those things to happen to one person during one lifetime. May I ask _you_ a question, Jim?"

Kirk nodded.

"Why are we talking about this?"

The Captain sighed, staring at the ceiling.

"Something Giotto said. Made me think about the past... And the future," he met the other's gaze. "Spock, do you know—do you ever think of what the future may hold for us?"

Spock's face changed almost imperceptibly, but enough to create an impression of surprised, amused and mildly reproachful smile. Not that he actually smiled, of course.

"Jim," one word to carry all the meanings.

"What?" Kirk pursed his lips defensively. "You think I never tire of being invincible?"

"I said no such thing. I was merely momentarily taken aback by the contrast between this and your usual image. Whatever happened that made you feel so insecure?"

"This is our last mission during this tour," Kirk said quietly.

"Quite probably."

"That doesn't bother you?"

"All things end, Jim."

"And you don't feel sorry? Even a bit?"

The look of utter vulnerability in his eyes, normally emanating unbreakable confidence, was a bit more than anyone with heart could have taken calmly. Spock leaned forward slightly and picked up Jim's hand lying on the bed close to his knee. He gave it a light squeeze, knowing, on some subconscious level, that nonverbal communications were a faster way to get the message to this particular human.

"Jim, I cannot tell you the future. And for the past, as I know it now, I have few regrets. You are not one of them."

His insecurity fought a lost battle, being pushed away by the radiant feeling of warmth that flooded his eyes. Kirk smiled and shook his head lightly.

"How do you always know the right thing to say?" he asked, returning the pressure.

Spock raised an eyebrow.

"I really wouldn't know, Captain," he teased, pulling Kirk up.

"Are you trying to get rid of me already?" Kirk's tone was deliberately pouting.

"I merely wish to assist with your headache. Turn around."

"Isn't that—" Kirk frowned in feigned concentration and quoted, "—a simple task, which, after years of training, I should be able to accomplish without your assistance?"

"It is, and you are able, but you are also here and not in your own cabin, regardless of both those facts," Spock said pointedly. "Turn around."

Kirk sighed, doing as he was bid.

"It just helps better when you do it," he said only half-apologetically.

"That is not logical."

"It's true, though. A little sympathy makes wonders. You know, when I was a child, Mom always kissed my cuts and bruises, and they stopped hurting. It helped much better than a tissue regenerator."

Pause.

Kirk glanced over his shoulder.

"Hey, I'm not suggesting—"

"I am relieved, Captain," Spock replied dryly, turning the human's head forcibly back into correct position. "A comparison with your mother, however flattering, is distinctly disquieting, for reasons that elude me."

"I think you underestimate yourself and your healing powers."

"I have no healing powers, Captain. It is a simple technique. Take a deep breath. Again. Hold it."

Submitting to guidance was easy. This was one of the many things Spock had taught him over the years, and by that point it was more of a ritual than a real effort. Something that reminded him of the long way they had come.

What was five years to Spock? Kirk mused quietly, letting his body respond to commands on autopilot. The lifespan of Vulcans exceeded two hundred years. They must have quite a different perception of time. It was strange to realize that, despite their respective chronological age, Spock was younger compared to him. And somehow would be getting younger, as Jim moved on in his years. For Kirk, five years were a lifetime. For Spock? An episode? Would the Vulcan even remember him by his middle age?

They were so different. So impossibly, profoundly different.

Was he crazy to allow this relationship to form? What would he do when Spock would tell him, 'All things end, Jim,' and move on with the life, of which he would no longer be a part? He seemed to be more distant by the day even now.

How could something that had not happened yet hurt so much already?

Suddenly a hand was hovering at his temple, and he leaned slightly to meet it for a fleeting touch. A thought kindled in his mind that did not belong to him.

 _I shall always be your friend, Jim._

The presence was feather-light and delicate, lingering only a moment, but it was enough. Kirk sighed deeply and freely, letting the headache drain and the fear lessen.

He only hoped, with all the effort his soul could muster, that this wasn't one of those 'always' which turned into 'never' in due time.

 

 

\--

 

 _The starry sky glowed mysteriously above the treetops, and he could almost feel their gentle touch on his upturned face. At his feet, the fire was crackling softly and cheerfully, biting slightly at his knees and hands._

" _Careful, Pasha, you're gonna slip into the fire."_

 _He winced, realizing they had caught him stargazing again, and straightened up, intercepting a mischievous glance Maryann sent to Liman. Both girls snickered._

" _We're gonna have to roast him then," Maryann said, producing a soft white object out of her bag and impaling it on a twig. "Instead of this."_

" _What is it?" Chekov asked, with a mixture of curiosity and alarm._

" _That?" Maryann stared at him incredulously. "It's a marshmallow. I thought you said you went camping before."_

" _Of course, I did," he declared, with a genuine pout of a twelve-year-old, whose pride had been piqued. "But we don't have those marshmallow things."_

" _What do you have then?" Maryann asked, her eyes glowing with lenient curiosity._

" _Potatoes."_

" _Excuse me?" The girls stared at each other. Maryann laughed. "Potatoes?"_

" _What's a—" Liman started, bewildered, but Chekov cut her off._

" _Ever eaten fries?" he turned on her aggressively. She nodded. "Well, they don't fall out of the sky the way they are. They are made of potatoes. What, they don't have any decent food on Mars?"_

" _It's a sort of a vegetable," Maryann explained to her friend. "You know. Like a—like an apple, only grows underground."_

" _I can't stand it, really," Alex announced suddenly, rising up from the sleeping bag, on top of which he'd been lying. The eldest of the four, he surveyed his friends with an air of impatient superiority. "It's not like an apple, Maryann, for God's sake. And it's not a vegetable. It's a tuber crop. It was once the most widely grown crop on Earth. God, you really trip me out sometimes."_

" _Why would I care to know that?" Maryann sniffed scornfully. "We can now replicate anything. And biology isn't gonna be my specialty."_

" _Aren't you bothered that you don't know_ anything _?"_

" _What do I need to know? That Pasha's folks still eat raw potatoes instead of marshmallows?" she picked the now slightly browned soft sweet ball and took a bite. "I can live without that knowledge."_

" _We don't eat them raw," Chekov retorted, insulted. They were all older than he, and he felt constantly on the spot. "We bury them in the ashes and grill them there. It's tasty!"_

" _Hmm," Maryann intoned dubiously. "I prefer more civilized products, if you don't mind," she offered the rest of the marshmallow to Liman._

" _Careful, Maryann," Alex laughed, seeing the expression on Chekov's face. "You shouldn't tease our little Pavel here with comments like that. You know how adamant he is about Russia."_

" _I can't see why," she shrugged carelessly. "I've been there with my dad. It's cold and it's dark. Why do you live there?"_

" _It's my home," his voice trembled slightly with barely controlled rage. "You live in San Francisco just because your dad works there."_

" _So? Your dad works in Lunaport, you could have lived there. I'd love to live there! All those clubs and lights and shops, mmm..."_

" _That's all you care about—shops?"_

" _And all you care about are ships and guns, so what's your problem?"_

" _Well, that at least makes sense," Alex noted. "They do make excellent weapons in Russia."_

 _Chekov was anything but appeased._

" _We don't only make weapons!" he stormed. "We are as peaceful as you are."_

" _Sure," Maryann snorted, taking in his belligerent stance. "You're just_ a little _better at destroying things than in making them."_

" _That's not true!"_

" _No?" she blinked in mock amazement. "Name one peaceful thing you've given the world, before Earth was united."_

" _Vodka," Liman said suddenly._

 _Chekov blushed, while Alex and Maryann burst out laughing._

" _No, sweetheart," Alex shook his head at the shy girl from Martian colony. "Vodka was invented in Finland."_

" _Literature," Chekov spoke triumphantly, determined to win the argument. "Literature is peaceful and Russian literature is great."_

" _Really?" Maryann stared at him. "I haven't heard of any great Russian writers."_

 _Chekov's own knowledge in the area was more than lacking, but he heard his Dad talking about Russian literature with great respect. Being unable to come up with a name, he blurted out angrily,_

" _I haven't heard of any great American writers either!"_

" _Yeah? How about William Shakespeare?"_

 _That was a hard blow, and it made Chekov remember at least one name he once heard his Dad mentioning._

" _How about Stanislaw Lem?"_

" _That's it, I've had it!" Alex sprang to his feet, unable to stay put any longer. "What is wrong with you, people? Are you blind, deaf and just plain stupid? Maryann, for crying out loud, Shakespeare was an Englishman! And, Pasha, Stanislaw Lem was from Poland! I don't believe it," he shook his head, pacing the clearing in agitation. "How can you not know_ anything _about your own planet? All you can think about are the blasted stars! Maryann here wants to be an ambassador. Why would she care about Earth's culture? With knowledge like that you'd end up in an Orion brothel, and you'd probably like it in there, because it's nothing like Earth!"_

" _Just because I didn't want to kiss you, doesn't mean I'm gonna end up being a whore!" she snapped angrily._

" _You wouldn't know how to be anything else! You're so enchanted with alien cultures, but you know nothing of your own! You can tell me all about T'Rell of Vulcan, but you have no idea who Shakespeare is! And Pasha here," he changed the vector of his attack abruptly. "Pasha wants to join Starfleet, don't you, Pashka? He wants to become a starship captain, no less. He stares at the stars for so long that he has probably plotted courses between all of them, by now. But he fails to notice that he shares his last name with one of those great dead Russian writers that he's apparently so proud of! You didn't know that, did you, Pasha? You have no idea who it is I'm talking about. Well, maybe that will make you consult the library for something else than comets and asteroids! And this poor creature," he pointed at Liman, who winced in alarm. "She looks human, probably is human, but she's thirteen years old and doesn't know what a potato is. Why would she want to? She's so fascinated with aliens, she wants to become a xenobiologist. Aliens are prettier to her, than humans. Why?" he gathered them all with a glance. "Why are you people so fascinated with other planets, with all those Vulcans, Rigels and Capellas? What makes you think they are better than Earth?"_

" _We do not think they are better," Chekov said slowly. "We are just curious."_

" _Curious?" Alex exploded. "Why can't you be curious about what's happening on_ this _planet? You know nothing about it! I turn on the vid, and all I hear about is_ Federation _news. Somehow, there's always room to tell us what the Vulcan High Council thinks about pretty much anything. About what's happening on Andor Prime. About another Tellarite expedition. And what about Earth? If we don't even care ourselves for what's happening on our own planet, why would anyone else respect us? Have you, in your ignorance, thought about that?"_

 _They exchanged nervous glances. It was not uncommon for Alex to blow off steam like that, but this time it sounded more serious than usual. Suddenly, Maryann got to her feet. She was pretty at her fourteen and quite sure of herself. Maybe that was why Alex was attracted to her, despite her apparent vices. She winked at Liman and Chekov, and coming over to face Alex, rose on her toes and kissed him, somewhat awkwardly. He stared at her. She grinned._

" _When I'm an ambassador, I'll make you a cultural advisor and you can tell me all about Earth," she promised, her hands locking behind his neck. "You'll make the whole galaxy listen. Now, can we please have some marshmallows in peace? This is supposed to be a vacation."_

" _You are so ignorant," he whispered hoarsely, already giving up, unable to resist her natural pull._

" _Yes. But I know everything I need to know for the moment," she smiled impishly, before kissing him again._

Chekov woke up with a start. For a moment, he felt disoriented, unable to determine at once where he was. Then it dawned. His cabin, on the _Enterprise_. And someone was at the door.

"Come in," he called huskily, still under the spell of the dreamed memory.

The door swooshed open, and Sulu entered, obvious concern on his face.

"You were asleep?" he stared at Chekov incredulously. "The shift starts in two minutes."

"Yes," Chekov got out of bed hurriedly. "I must have been more tired than I thought. You go, I'll meet you on the Bridge."

"Fine, but I'll have to log it," Sulu frowned at him.

"Whatever," Chekov replied, diving into his bathroom. "Be right there."

"Okay. Are you sure you're alright? It's not like you to oversleep."

"I'm perfectly fine, now go before you're late yourself."

Obviously, no explanations were forthcoming. Shrugging and looking positively sour, Sulu turned on his heels and left.


	9. Disaster

"Captain, receiving a distress signal from the Miraxine colony," Liz Palmer announced in alarm, listening to her earpiece intently.

Kirk swiveled in his chair toward her.

"Any details?"

"Negative, sir, it's pretty garbled."

"Try to clear it up, Lieutenant. Mr. Chekov, ETA to Miraxine?"

Chekov checked his board quickly.

"Thirty-three minutes, Keptin. Present speed."

"Change the course, Mr. Farrell. Mr. Spock, data on the planet?"

"Small planetoid approximately the size of Earth's Moon," Spock reported, without consulting the library bank. "Atmosphere oxygen-nitrogen, surface conditions vary from Class M to Class L."

"Population?"

"One thousand colonists at last report."

Kirk turned to look at him, and Spock nodded, acknowledging the unasked question.

"Mostly humans. However, there is a scientific facility on the planet, an exobotany lab. Its staff consists of thirty scientists from all over the Federation."

"Captain, I have new information on the distress call," Palmer said. "It's still garbled, but it sounds like a message. Shall I switch it on?"

"Right now," Kirk nodded.

They all froze, listening intently.

"...under attack. They came from nowhere. We have no defenses... blasts from the research center... They have surrounded... —orian and others... can't see... any Federation vessel in the vicinity, we need help! It's a— ... we're under attack..."

Kirk gestured for the communications officer to mute the transmission.

"Any chance we can answer to that call?"

"No, sir," she shook her head, even as her eyes were glued to her panel. "All frequencies are jammed at the source; this message was obviously away before it happened."

Kirk's head snapped towards the Science station.

"Spock, what do you read?"

"Signs of phaser discharges, the tracking satellite in orbit destroyed. Indications of various disruptions on the surface," he straightened up to look at the viewscreen, where the small planet was enlarging gradually. "No hostile vessels showing up on our scanners, Captain. However, it does not exclude the possibility of them returning. Recommend extreme caution."

"Noted," Kirk nodded briskly. "Sound Yellow Alert, Lieutenant. Our position, helm?"

"Entering orbit now, sir," Lieutenant Farrell reported.

"Captain! We're past the ring of communications' jam!"

"Hail them, Lieutenant."

She was already manipulating her controls, her face creased in concentration. In a moment, she shook her head.

"Sorry, sir. No response."

"What's going on down there?" Kirk muttered under his breath. "They couldn't all have died."

"They have not," Spock confirmed, bent over his scanner again. "I'm reading multiple life signs."

"Right," Kirk was on his feet in a split second, coming to hover over the Communications station. "Lieutenant, have Doctor McCoy and Mr. Sulu report to the Transporter Room. Have Lieutenant Commander Giotto assign a Security detail. I'll meet them there in five minutes."

"Aye, sir," Palmer dived into the task with self-assured efficiency.

Kirk was approached by a Yeoman, who handed him a status report, and paused mid-step, taking the padd from her.

"Mr. Spock, you have the conn," he said, not lifting his eyes off the padd.

"Captain."

The Vulcan stood at his station, arms folded across his chest, one eyebrow elevated. He said only one word, and with no inflection whatsoever, but there was not a single person on the Bridge, who didn't understand exactly what he meant by it. It was as if the temperature had suddenly fallen several degrees. Kirk gritted his teeth momentarily, gave the padd back to the Yeoman, and turned to face his second-in-command with a wry grin.

"Spock, let's not do this now. I know verbatim what you've got to say, so you might as well save your breath. I'll note your objection in the log."

"That is your prerogative, however, of little concern to me, sir," Spock held his ground. "The current situation on the planet is clearly below the safety marker. Your beaming down is in violation of three standing Starfleet regulations."

"And if I needed my memory refreshed, Mr. Spock, I'd ask you to quote them. I don't," Kirk snapped, his temper flaring. "You have the conn. Or is it so difficult for you to follow orders without argument?"

"No, sir," Spock's tone was icy. "Compliance presents no difficulty."

"Then, Mr. Spock, comply."

Kirk turned on his heel rather abruptly, and left.

Damn him anyway, Kirk mused grudgingly in the silence of the turbolift. As if he didn't know without Spock's lectures that the situation on the planet was dangerous. That was exactly why he had to go himself. How many times had they been through this? A hundred? A thousand? Seemed like Spock would never learn...

Suddenly, it occurred to Kirk that if anything went terribly wrong down on the planet, his last words to Spock would be the ones spoken in anger. He shook his head violently to dismiss the absurd notion. Since when had he become a fatalist?

He stormed out of the lift, startling an ensign, waiting for a cabin. Flashing a trademark captain's grin at her by means of apology, Kirk rushed to the Transporter Room.

 

 

\--

Coffee seemed like a good idea. It would have been a good idea, if he hadn't had eight cups in the last three hours. McCoy stared at the dark-brown liquid in disgust, feeling his stomach cringe as the smell reached his nose. Maybe he should just forget the whole idea and take a stimulant. But no, he thought. He would want to abuse this stuff even less than caffeine, and he had too much of it in the last twenty-four hours as well.

"Damn you, Scotty," he muttered, taking a sip and grimacing. "You're as bad as those two. Granted, you don't get into trouble as often, but what you lack in quantity you seem to compensate in quality."

McCoy hated treating radiation poisoning. He supposed it wasn't very logical, since obviously it was less dramatic or life-threatening than a disruptor wound, but the treatment was an extremely nasty one. Human bodies were not designed to absorb this many drugs, McCoy thought. No wonder people were going out of their skins. The gag reflex was so strong, it made them empty their stomachs almost constantly, resulting in severe dehydration. Other side effects included high fever, delirium and extreme agitation. There was no way to alleviate this condition. The patients were supposed to be conscious throughout the full duration of the treatment.

Technically speaking, treating radiation poisoning was far from being difficult. But watching people climbing the walls for twenty-four hours was hardly an easy sight.

However, Scotty got lucky. The previous night, as McCoy got summoned to a staff meeting, Lieutenant Uhura came by to see how Scott was doing. She advised Christine of the therapeutic effect of music and even supplied her with a suitable tape. When McCoy came back in two hours, he discovered considerable improvement. Scotty was lying in his bed in a tensed but calm posture, staring at one spot, as if in some sort of trance. His reactions appeared to have frozen.

The same could not be said, however, for all the other Sick Bay occupants and medical personnel, all of whom got more agitated by the minute. As McCoy entered, he watched in amazement as a young geologist tried to talk his way out despite the fact that his arm was still very much broken. The nurse was only half sincere as she argued with him and finally agreed to treat his injury in his quarters. It was then that a peculiar sound had reached McCoy's ears.

The music that Lieutenant Uhura suggested was bagpipes.

Doctor Suarez stormed into McCoy's office as another hour ran out.

"I've had it, Leonard!" the petite woman declared, slamming her palm into his desk. "I've just had the worst nightmare of my life! I was performing a surgery on Lieutenant Unari, when someone opened the door and that _screeching_ came in. I've never had my patients _jumping_ on the table before!"

"He jumped on the table? Well, sometimes they do get nervous—"

"He was under general anesthetic, Leonard!"

"Oh. Well..."

It was not easy to get her out of the door, especially, as the sounds began to get to him, too. Sick Bay was purposefully not soundproof, so that the medical personnel were always alert to the slightest trouble. In another two hours, McCoy began to seriously question the wisdom of that arrangement.

"Just thought you might want to know," Doctor M'Benga said, looming in the doorway of his office. "Our people are planning your auto-da-fe out there. Last time I heard they were discussing where to get enough wood and how fast it would take for the fire alarms to reach Security."

"What do they want to burn _me_ for?" McCoy sighed, lifting his weary eyes on him. "It was Uhura's idea."

"Which you didn't counter," M'Benga reminded him pointedly. "We're all suffering here because of you."

"Look, I'm not that fond of it, too, but—" he shot a look in the direction of Scott's ward, "it's making it bearable for him. Can't you tolerate it for another couple of hours?"

"Couple of hours?" M'Benga stared at him. His face suddenly became set. "If you'll excuse me, Doctor. I think I've seen a nice wooden cabinet in the waiting area. It should do nicely."

Another couple of hours, however, brought an end to McCoy's reserve as well. His head pounding, he burst into the ward, where Christine was still keeping her watch over the Engineer.

"How much more of this do we have to endure, Nurse?" the CMO growled.

Chapel blinked, looking up at him with infuriating calmness.

"Endure, Doctor? I like it. It's sort of... relaxing."

"Relaxing? I'm recommending it as a perfect torture instrument to the next Klingon commander we meet!" he pressed his hands to his head in agony. "God forbid, I should share Spock's tastes in anything, but at least the Vulcan lyre is _quiet_!"

"I think you're taking it the wrong way," Chapel said thoughtfully, a dreamy expression on her face. "It's kind of meditative."

McCoy groaned.

"It's Zen, all right. How much longer?"

She checked the prescription list on her padd.

"Well, the dobamine will be up in about thirty minutes and that's the last drug on the list. How much longer after that is really up to you."

"Okay," McCoy closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Okay. I'm going to the Mess for some coffee and then—"

"I don't think you'll be able to leave Sick Bay, Doctor," Chapel smiled sweetly at him. "Doctor Suarez has posted two nurses at the door. They have instructions not to let you out of here, unless there's a medical emergency on the Bridge."

McCoy opened his eyes and stared at her blankly. There was such a complete lack of any signs of intelligent thought in this gaze that for a moment, Chapel almost felt scared. Then, the empty gaze drifted to the biobed and glinted malevolently. McCoy walked determinedly towards the bed and glared at its occupant.

"Next time, Scotty, do me a favor and simply jump into the reactor. Resurrecting your eradicated body cell by cell can't really be much worse than this."

Scotty's unblinking stare showed no sign of acknowledgement, though if the Engineer were conscious, he would most probably have agreed. McCoy gritted his teeth and turned back to Chapel.

"Call me in thirty minutes."

In forty minutes, it was finally safe to allow Scott to sleep, and the music was turned off with a lot of whoops and cheers. Unwilling to confront his staff, McCoy took refuge in his office, sleeping on a couch and reveling in silence.

He felt stiff and sore when he woke up, but the discomfort was negligible compared to the absolute hell of the previous night. He opened the door of his office warily, but, upon discovering no riot at his doorstep, strode quietly into Scotty's ward.

"He's coming around, Doctor," Chapel said, looking crisp and fresh as morning dew.

McCoy limped to the biobed, massaging his neck. He peered at the readings with a slight frown, which began to clear steadily as he progressed from indicator to indicator.

"Blood cells count normal, hemoglobin normal, muscle capacity normal, kidney function restored to ninety-six percent and rising," he finished with a pleased smile. "I'd say our treatment is working perfectly, Nurse."

Chapel was studying Scott dubiously.

"I don't know, Doctor," she said, watching the shaky hands reach out erratically, while the warm brown eyes slid from object to object anxiously. "He doesn't look that good."

McCoy glanced down at his patient, unconcerned.

"He's just groggy from all the chemicals we pumped him with. As soon as they're out of his system, he'll be perfectly fine again."

"Hmm," Chapel pursed her lips and laid the back of her hand lightly on Scott's forehead. "I think he's still running a fever."

"Who are ye?" Scott demanded suddenly, as his eyes focused on her. "Ye look like a nun with a bun."

McCoy snorted, while Christine raised her hand to her complex hairstyle defensively.

"A fever, Nurse? I'd say he's pretty clear-minded," he checked the readings again, ignoring her insulted stare. "He does have a fever, a low one, though. Better let him run it out on his own, I don't want to give him any more medicine."

"I'll be watching him, sir," Chapel nodded grimly, her cheeks slightly flushed.

"Good. And IV is fine, but I want something more natural, too. Give him a glass of water with two drops of promodol."

"Yes, Doctor."

"No way!" Scotty exclaimed when she returned in a minute with a glass in her hand. "Ye wanna poison me!"

"Now, now, Scotty," she advanced on him with a determined look on her face. "Drink this up, like a good boy."

"That's what you get for playing games with your health, without consulting your kind friendly doctor," McCoy hovered over the bed, fixing the disoriented Engineer with a reproachful gaze. "You reckless, pig-headed son of a gun. If you'd put on an environmental suit, it would have killed you?"

Scott looked up at him, blinking and narrowing his eyes, as if trying to determine something.

"Hey, ye're a nasty old man," he declared suddenly, staring at McCoy with a hint of recognition. "I'm sure I've seen ye somewhere before."

Chapel turned away, pressing her hand to her lips hard.

"I don't doubt it," McCoy said dryly.

"Clear-minded, Doctor," Christine noted innocently. "Are you sure the effects will wear off?"

"Quite," McCoy nodded, continuing to make notes on his padd. "And I'll have a real nice talk with him when they do."

"Lassie," Scott turned his lambent eyes on Chapel, finally taking the glass. "No decent Scotsman should part with this life in silence. Can ye bring me some Scotch and call the musicians back?"

McCoy felt the padd slipping out of his fingers.

"Doctor McCoy?" Nurse Bana stood in the doorway. "A call for you from the Bridge. Something about landing party duty."

"Thank God," McCoy whispered. "Miss Chapel, feel free to do whatever is necessary to make our patient cooperate," he offered generously. "Oh, and Nurse? If I should fall in the line of duty, please tell him that my last thoughts were of him and of how much I regret not killing him."

"He's one jack-in-the-box, isn't he?" Scott commented after the Doctor. "Must be some box."

Chapel couldn't come up with a suitable reply.

 

 

\--

They materialized on a small sunlit glade near one of the biggest buildings and took a moment to take in their surroundings.

"Where is everyone?" McCoy muttered under his breath. "There were life signs, weren't there?"

"So Spock said," Kirk shrugged, looking around with a frown. "Maybe we should—"

A voice from behind interrupted him.

"You're Starfleet."

One of the Security guards tensed, ready to jump forward, but Kirk caught his arm and shook his head. He, too, had noticed the slightly opened door.

"That's right," he said evenly. "We're from the starship _Enterprise_."

An elderly man in customary farmer's attire stepped through the door, looking at them suspiciously. Kirk raised his hands, walking over slowly.

"I'm Captain Kirk. We heard your distress call."

"Starfleet," the man repeated, as his eyes studied each of them in turn. He glanced back and shouted. "Over here, everyone! It's all right! It's Starfleet!"

In a moment, they were surrounded by the colonists. McCoy reached for his tricorder automatically, but the scanner only confirmed what his eyes had told him already.

"Jim," he spoke softly to Kirk. "These people are frightened, but unharmed."

The Captain nodded. He addressed the elder man again.

"Are you the colony leader?"

"Yes. My name is Douglas Setter."

"What happened here? Who attacked you?"

"We don't know. A ship assumed orbit. We couldn't identify it. We only have minimal equipment here. They hailed us, said they had some business with our research team. We gave them the coordinates, and they beamed down directly to the Science Center. We heard weapons fire and screams."

"And you didn't try to enter?"

"They posted a guard to each entrance. One shot Galya, when she tried to get in. She was our Chief Technical Specialist. And my wife," he stiffened, fighting back his rage and sorrow. "We are farmers, Captain. We have no weapons."

"We tried to send a distress call," a young woman spoke, walking over to them and resting her hands on Setter's arm supportively. "But discovered our communications buoy was destroyed. We didn't know if we even transmitted, but obviously you're here."

"What happened then?"

"We don't know," the young woman shrugged. "It all went quiet and the guards vanished. But we were afraid to come out. The ship in orbit, it disappeared and then reappeared again. It's gone now, but we couldn't be sure."

Kirk exchanged an alarmed glance with Sulu.

"A cloaked vessel, sir?" the Helmsman suggested grimly.

"Sounds plausible," Kirk grunted, flipping open his communicator. "Kirk to _Enterprise_."

"Spock here."

"Mr. Spock, are you making sensor sweeps of the area?"

"Affirmative."

"Anything unusual?"

There was a slight pause, while Spock made a check. Kirk waited patiently.

"No, sir. Why do you ask?"

Kirk sighed, his frown deepening.

"We have reasons to believe there might be a cloaked ship in orbit. Watch for it."

"Understood, sir."

"Maintain Yellow Alert. Kirk out," he glanced at the colonists. "I'm sorry, Miss, what's your name?"

"Esther Martinez."

"Miss Martinez, can you show us how to get to your Science Center?"

She looked at Setter uncertainly, then shrugged.

"Sure."

"Mr. Setter," Kirk found it difficult to make eye contact with him, but tried nevertheless. "I believe it would be best if you take your people back to the building. Until we determine whether there's still danger, I'd prefer you were safe."

"Very well, Captain," Setter nodded. "But if anything happens to Esther—"

"She'll be back before you know it," Kirk assured. "Let's go."

They walked in silence over the hill, with Esther leading the way and Security guards establishing a defense perimeter.

"Those guards, what did they look like?" Kirk asked.

"Humanoid," she replied, with a dismissive frown. "Couldn't make anything else, they were wearing some kind of armor. Not very revealing."

"You think they were the _Nailers_ , Jim?" McCoy glanced at him, doubtful.

"I don't know," Kirk shrugged. "But if so, they have become even more audacious and I don't like it."

"It's right over there," Esther pointed at the stumpy square building below. "I could take you to the center entrance."

"No, that won't be necessary," Kirk smiled at her blandly. "We'll be fine from here. You'd better get back to the others. Thank you for your help."

For a moment, she looked as though she was about to protest, but then nodded, and headed back. Kirk's smile disappeared instantly.

"Mr. Sulu, scout up ahead, take all the readings you can from a safe distance."

"Aye, sir."

"Mr. Leslie, Mr. Tama, you're with him. Lieutenant," he waved for the Security detail leader. "Spread your men in the chain formation. Let's not let anyone surprise us."

"Aye, sir."

Kirk watched his orders being executed momentarily, then touched McCoy's hand lightly.

"Let's go."

They began to walk slowly downhill, casting wary glances around.

"So," McCoy drawled with ostensible casualness, "I take it Spock raised holy hell, when you decided to beam down."

Kirk peered at him gravely. "You could say that."

McCoy sighed.

"Jim, why don't you let him do his job?"

"His job, Doctor, is to follow my orders," Kirk snapped irritably. Catching a bewildered glance from his friend, he relented. "Besides, last time I sent you two to the same landing party, we ended up with a diplomatic disaster that had shaken up half the sector."

McCoy blushed.

"Those people had no sense of humor."

"As Spock tried to tell you."

"Spock has no sense of humor either, so you can't really blame me for not taking his word for it. Anyway, there ain't any princesses of the blood royal on this planet, Jim, just some old-fashioned bullies. You might have as well followed the regs for once and stayed aboard the ship."

"I needed to stretch my legs. Bones, do you really think this is the best time to talk about this?"

"We seem to have some time," McCoy shrugged, glancing up at Sulu, scouting a hundred meters ahead. "What's this really about, Jim? Did Spock take your lunch money or something? Why are you mad at him?"

"I'm not mad at him," Kirk shook his head. "But I don't like this whole _Nailers_ thing one bit. They have a grudge against non-humans, Bones, as if Spock didn't have enough of that. Remember Roccomas? Nilen III?"

McCoy winced. He remembered.

"No, Bones," Kirk pursed his lips determinedly. "I have no wish to see him like that ever again. Until we're done with this threat, he won't set one foot off the ship, that much I promise you."

The Doctor glanced sideways at him.

"That almost sounds territorial, Jim."

"I don't really give a damn."

"You might change your mind if Spock gets a wind of what you're really up to."

Kirk stopped abruptly, grabbing the Doctor's arm and swinging him around to face him.

"Then let's make sure that he doesn't, shall we?"

McCoy stared into the blazing hazel eyes for a long moment, then bowed his head.

"Not from me."

"Good," Kirk grinned wryly at him. "I believe Sulu's signaling. Let's move."


	10. Abattoir

"Sir, it's gone again," Chekov reported perplexedly. "I could have sworn it was just there."

"I fail to see how that would have helped us, Mr. Chekov," Spock said, rising up from the command chair and coming to the Science station. He peered into the monitor over the Ensign's shoulder. "Try to adjust the scanner's sensitivity lower point two percent."

"What would that accomplish?"

Spock just looked at him.

"Yes, sir," Chekov nodded instantly. "Adjusting. Receiving data, Mr. Spock."

"Transfer it to the main viewscreen," Spock said, signing a report a Yeoman handed him. He glanced up at the viewscreen, where a haze of incomprehensible impulses had appeared. "Now, Mr. Chekov, define atmospheric interference and eliminate it."

Chekov complied. The image became slightly less hazy, but still too multilayered to make any sense.

"Filter out gravimetric field," Spock ordered. The image lost yet another layer. Spock frowned. "Not only of the planet, Mr. Chekov. Eliminate all gravimetric distortions. Good. Now scan for tatrion particles."

"Sir?"

"Is there a problem, Ensign?"

"No, sir. Scanning for tatrions."

Chekov bit his lip in frustration. What was he possibly thinking? Questioning Commander Spock's orders was a sure and fast way to make one's life considerably more unpleasant.

"Tatrion emissions are a common byproduct of an operating cloaking device of Romulan or Klingon origin," Spock said softly behind him, making sure no one but the Ensign heard him.

Chekov silently nodded. This was not common knowledge. Given the top confidential status of the Federation's research of cloaking technologies, it was hardly a surprise. Nor was it unexpected that Spock would know of such peculiarity. After all, he and Scott were the only members of the _Enterprise_ crew who were allowed to conduct some experiments with the priceless piece of equipment stolen from the Romulan ship. Chekov also realized that it went without saying that he was not authorized to share this information. He was fully content to comply.

"Sir, there is a tatrion field of considerable density."

"Yes, I see," Spock nodded thoughtfully, studying the viewscreen. "It should be possible, however, to filter out the inert particles."

"Look!" Chekov exclaimed excitedly. "There's the source of the new ones!"

"Indeed," Spock stepped down to the inner rim, still staring at the screen. "Mr. Farrell, how long will it take the _Enterprise_ to reach these coordinates?"

"About seven minutes, sir."

" _About_ seven minutes, Lieutenant?"

"Sorry, sir. Six minutes thirty-eight seconds."

"Mr. Chekov, assume your station. Order phaser crews to stand ready."

Chekov nodded to a Science technician to take over the scanners, and stepped down to his own console.

"Four minutes nineteen seconds to intercept," Farrell reported.

"Phaser crews signal ready, sir," Chekov said. "But, Mr. Spock, what do I lock the phasers on?"

Spock clasped his hands behind his back, regarding the viewscreen pensively.

"Klingons and Romulans are the only races known to us to use the cloaking technology. Their ships are currently of similar design," he tilted his head slightly to his shoulder, studying the image. "According to this image, there is a forty-six percent probability that the ship holds the same bow-stern orientation as we do. I assume you know where the weapons and power systems are usually located on a Bird of Prey, Mr. Chekov?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then, until we can make them disengage their cloak, I suggest you target those systems to the best of your abilities."

"Sir?" Chekov turned to look at him in amazement.

Spock met his gaze evenly.

"Take a guess, Mr. Chekov."

"Yes, sir."

"One minute to intercept."

"Steady as she goes, helm," Spock said, standing behind Chekov's chair, resting his hand on its back. "Ready, Ensign?"

"Yes, sir."

All of them, save for the crewman at the Science station, turned to watch the viewscreen. Chekov frowned in concentration. There was something odd in the way the cloaked ship was moving. Something... familiar. It reminded him of something he had seen a long time ago, only couldn't remember. Suddenly, it clicked. He reached forward and pressed the fire button.

There was a collective gasp on the Bridge, as the phaser beam hit the invisible object, bringing it into the light.

"This is not a Romulan vessel!" Palmer exclaimed, surprised.

"Nor a Klingon," Spock commented.

"Whoever they are, they are charging weapons," Chekov broke in.

"Shields to maximum," the First Officer ordered briskly. "Lieutenant, try to raise them."

"They're firing!"

"Evasive maneuvers, helm!" Spock grabbed the command chair's arm for support, as the deck made a powerful surge under their feet. "Mr. Chekov, return fire!"

"A direct hit to their forward shield, sir," Chekov reported, as the two ships continued to exchange fire. "They are taking damage."

"Our status?"

"Primary power grid fluctuating," Farrell said, checking his panel. "Shields weakening."

Spock hit the comm panel.

"Bridge to Engineering. Mr. Gabler, we need more power."

"Sir, we're giving you the best we can. Any more and we'll risk fusing the dilithium matrix!"

"It should be possible to bypass this problem by cross circuiting primary and auxiliary junctions," Spock instructed calmly, wishing Scott were at his post. The deck shook yet again.

"I'll try that, Mr. Spock, but you gotta do something with this ship out there! We won't hold for much longer, even if we do this."

"Understood," Spock acknowledged. "Spock out."

"Mr. Spock, I believe I can get a lock on their engines," Chekov offered hesitantly, running quick calculations on his board. "It must be them, it couldn't be anything else."

"Do we have sufficient phaser power to penetrate their shields?"

"No, sir."

"Then, launch a torpedo, Mr. Chekov," Spock's hand clasped on the back of his chair tightly. "But be precise. It is unlikely we will get a second chance."

"Aye, sir," Chekov nodded grimly. "Firing."

Holding their breaths, they watched as the lonely torpedo zoomed in on the enemy vessel.

"A direct hit, sir!" Farrell yelled, hitting his console in excitement. "Their power levels are dropping, shields going down!"

"Target their weapons system, Mr. Chekov, fire when ready."

It was over in another moment. The vessel appeared completely devoid of energy, drifting helplessly on the viewscreen.

"Mr. Spock, they're hailing us," Palmer said.

"On screen."

The image changed to reveal a rather disorderly bridge of the enemy ship. The tall man who faced them was definitely human, though wearing undeniable signs of recent combat. He opened his mouth to speak, but as his eyes focused on Spock, an expression of profound scorn creased his features, and he never said a word. Spock appeared unperturbed, while Chekov gasped mildly, staring at the hostile captain.

"I'm Commander Spock of the USS _Enterprise_. Surrender and prepare to be—"

He never finished. The link was broken abruptly, but before Spock even thought of ordering to reestablish it, a huge blinding burst enveloped the rogue ship.

"It's gone, sir," Farrell reported the obvious. "Completely destroyed."

"Hmm," Spock frowned. "I will have to review our logs to determine if it was a malfunction or a deliberate act. Meanwhile, Mr. Farrell, tell the Transporter Room to beam the biggest fragments they can reach into our cargo bay. The examination might prove useful."

"Aye, sir."

"Lieutenant," Spock glanced at Palmer. "I am going to step out for a moment. Page Mr. DeSalle to the Bridge, in the meantime you have the conn."

"Yes, sir."

"Mr. Chekov, you are with me."

Chekov flinched, but rose to comply instantly. They made their way to the Briefing Room in silence, which made the Ensign even more nervous. As soon as the doors were closed, Spock rounded on him, making him fight the urge to snap to attention.

"Ensign, I would like to receive an explanation of your actions. Why have you opened fire without waiting for my order?"

Spock's calm even voice did not deceive him. Chekov swallowed forcibly, knowing he was in trouble.

"I would also like to know how you managed to deactivate their cloaking shield generator with one shot. The chances of this happening are less than 3486 to 1."

"Sir, I don't know why their cloak was deactivated. I didn't know it would happen. I just fired at them, sir."

"Why? I had not yet given you the order."

"I... anticipated your order, sir."

"Indeed? Mr. Chekov, I am still not convinced that it was impossible to avoid a confrontation. Have you not fired on them first—"

"Sir, they were turning to attack us, I know!" Chekov exclaimed earnestly. "I knew they were going to fire!"

The Vulcan raised an eyebrow. "How?"

"I just did, sir. I had a hunch."

"A 'hunch'?"

"I was watching the maneuver on the screen, and I recognized it. I've seen it before."

That gave Spock a halt.

"Where?"

Chekov dropped his gaze. "At Starfleet Academy. Something I saw once in a flight simulator."

"Indeed? Ensign, this could be very important. Can you remember who performed the maneuver you witnessed?"

"No, Mr. Spock," Chekov said quietly, still not quite meeting his eyes. "I didn't know who it was."

"I see," Spock intoned pensively. "Ensign, no matter what 'hunches' you have experienced, you were incorrect to open fire without an order. This is not the kind of order you might 'anticipate'. The decision was mine, not yours. Under other circumstances, actions like these might have started a war. In our current situation, the consequences of your actions remain unknown as of yet . However, I want you to be aware of my recommendation to the Captain for a formal reprimand to be placed on your record."

Chekov nodded.

"I understand, sir. This will not happen again."

"I should hope not, Ensign. Otherwise I will have to relieve you of Bridge duty permanently. Dismissed."

Chekov walked out of the room, feeling his knees shaking. There was a peculiar buzzing in his head. He was experiencing a most unsettling numbness spreading down his whole body. But the reprimand, which he realized only too well he had earned, was the farthest thing from his mind.

"I killed him," he whispered desperately, stepping into an empty turbolift cabin. "O Bozhe moi. I killed him."

Terrified, he sank to the floor and hid his face in his hands.

 

 

\--

Ensign Tama was down on all fours; his body was lurching in violent convulsions as he vomited unceasingly. Ensign Leeds was in pretty much same condition. Lieutenant Olton was still on his feet, but he was far from blaming his men for their weakness. He, too, was fighting the surges of nausea. Even McCoy, with his years of experience in forensic medicine, had a hard time maintaining his professional detachment. Kirk was pale as ashes, and he hadn't spoken out one word since they entered the Science Center.

No life signs, Sulu had said. Indeed, there weren't. But everywhere throughout the whole building there were signs of death, one so terrible it was inconceivable that the kind could even exist.

Mutilated bodies. Ripped, torn, mutilated bodies of the science team were positioned with sadistic consideration to satisfy some perverted aesthetical taste. Those people did not die easily. The sounds of weapons fire that the colonists had heard must have been stunning rays, because it was obvious that the attackers took their time to kill their victims in a most savage way. The thick smell of blood was hovering over the monstrous exhibition.

The _Enterprise_ landing party moved slowly from room to room, hardly uttering a word. There were no humans among those tortured to death. No humans and no survivors. McCoy counted the bodies automatically, trying to give his brain something to hang on to. But as they entered the last lab, he felt his heart stop.

There were three bodies in there. An Andorian, a Tellarite and a Vulcan. None of them were intact. It was as if someone had used them as constructor components to create a horrifying composition. The body in the middle belonged to a Vulcan. The head was skinned, ears cut off, the exerted nose of the Tellarite was pinned to the face, the head was crowned with Andorian antennae. To its left the Tellarite's remains were supplied with the breasts of the Andorian female, and the Vulcan's genitalia had replaced its missing nose. The Andorian female's body, which was flanking the Vulcan's on the other side, was skinned to reveal all of the internal organs. The Vulcan's ears were carefully placed on the corps' head.

Blindly, Kirk reached for the wall, leaning hard on it and struggling to breathe.

"I need some air," he managed hoarsely and pushed the side door, leading into the backyard. For a moment or two, he simply gulped the air greedily, feeling sharp stinging pain in his chest. Then, as his vision cleared, he realized that the nightmare never ended.

"Bones."

The Doctor stepped into the yard and froze, taking in yet another horrific picture.

Humans. There were the missing human scientists. Five bodies, lying on their backs, completely intact, in contrast with total lack of at least one undamaged nonhuman body inside. They lied spread-eagled on the ground with their hands and feet pinned to it with thick long nails. Each body had two more nails pegged into their eyes.

"Holy Mary Mother of..." McCoy's voice caught. Heavily, he sank to one knee, leaning forward to fight the surge of vertigo. "My God, Jim. What kind of monsters would... what kind of..."

"The _Nailers_ , Doctor," Kirk said very quietly behind him. "Killed the aliens. Nailed the humans. To the ground," he could not speak out more than two words at a time. "This is a slaughter-house. A slaughter-house."

He turned very slowly, as if moving underwater, to see Sulu emerge from the building. The _Enterprise's_ Helmsman was stony-white, with tiny drops of cold sweat glistening on his forehead.

"Mr. Sulu. Contact the ship. Tell them. We need a—medical team. Tell them—to get ready for—this."

Sulu swallowed with difficulty.

"Aye, sir."

"Jim?" McCoy looked up at him in alarm. The moment he saw the Captain sway, he jumped to his feet and grabbed Kirk's arm to steady him. "Let's get out of here. C'mon."

He jerked open the outer door leading to the other side of the house, into the open ground. Kirk's weight was too heavy for him to carry, so the Doctor allowed him to sit down, leaning on the warm sunlit wall. McCoy lifted Kirk's chin up with his fingers, trying to look into his eyes.

What he saw was a void.

 _Tight fingers on his chin pressed mercilessly. A big offensive hand squeezed the back of his neck, forcing him to look forward._

" _Watch!"_

 _Jimmy snapped his eyes shut._

" _Open your eyes."_

 _He squeezed them tighter._

" _Open your eyes, or I will tear out your eyelids."_

 _The searing hot wave of hatred flooded his skinny body. He obeyed._

 _Two men about forty, and a woman about thirty. All with red crosses on their foreheads. Red, not blue like his. They were gagged and restrained._

 _Jimmy didn't know them. With eight thousand people living in the colony it was hardly surprising. But he didn't feel so much better just because for him they didn't have names._

 _The guard leaned close to him, whispering in his ear._

" _Now, I can't kill you, boy, with that pretty blue mark on your skin. But I will make you pay for what you did today."_

" _You're gonna kill them?"_

 _The guard laughed. "Of course, we gonna kill them. But they won't die instantly. We'll make it interesting for you. We'll start with the woman, I think. Strip her!" he ordered to his subordinates. Her clothes disappeared in seconds. "Bring her forward. Hold him."_

 _He was pushed roughly aside to be caught and held instantly by two pairs of strong arms. The guard commander walked to the woman._

" _It's a pity I don't like her," he complained. "Otherwise I'd given you a lesson or two on how to treat your girlfriends."_

" _Don't hurt her!" Jimmy yelled, unable to keep silence. "Governor Kodos ordered you to kill them, not to torture!"_

 _The guard commander sneered in his direction._

" _What the Governor doesn't know can't hurt him," he pushed the woman to the ground, face down, and placed his foot on her waist. She gave a muffled moan. "But maybe we should start with something simple," the guard commander mused. "Just to warm up."_

 _He bent down, gathered her long thick hair into his fist and straightened up, tugging her head upward ruthlessly. She moaned again, louder._

" _No!" Jimmy screamed, trying to wriggle out of the iron grip. "Leave her alone! Let her go!"_

" _As you wish."_

 _The guard commander bent down again and in one swift blurry motion cut her throat. The blood shot forward like a set of fireworks._

" _NO! No-o-o-o-o-oh..."_

"Jim!" a sharp pain in his cheek told him he had just been slapped. "Dammit, snap out of it!"

He blinked forcibly, focusing on McCoy's anxious face.

"I'm all right, Bones. I'm fine."

"The hell you are, you've been out for nearly a minute! What is it, Jim? You looked like you had some kind of walking dream or something. What did you see?"

"Nothing," Kirk shook his head. "Just a bad memory."

He straightened up, noticing that he was still sitting on the ground at the wall. He rose to his feet decisively, and by the time he reached the upright position, he was the Captain again. In full control.

He walked back into the backyard, this time looking over the bodies with absolute calmness, giving no sign of what it had cost him.

"Mr. Sulu, did you contact the _Enterprise_?"

"Yes, sir, I was just about to report. The medical teams are on their way, Captain. Mr. Spock said they have been attacked, but the enemy vessel has been destroyed."

Kirk raised his eyebrows and turned to look at the frowning Doctor.

"How do you like it, Bones? I can't leave the ship for an hour, without them getting into trouble."

McCoy watched him carefully.

"Jim, I will stay here to organize the—burial. You and Mr. Sulu better get back to the ship, I'm sure Spock will appreciate the help."

Kirk's lips creased in a wry ghost smile, telling McCoy he was being too obvious. The Doctor couldn't care less. The Captain finally nodded.

"Very well, Doctor, we'll stay out of your way. Mr. Sulu," he gestured towards the exit.

Sulu didn't intend to be asked twice, but Kirk stopped at McCoy's side and placed a hand on the Doctor's arm.

"Bones," he intoned softly, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Please don't tell Spock about how I... well, passed out, out there."

McCoy frowned even deeper.

"I'm not so sure it's wise, Jim. He's your second-in-command, and should this happen to you again—"

"It won't happen again," Kirk stated determinedly, his grip tightening. "I told you, Bones, it was just a memory, dealt with long ago. It won't come back."

"Jim—"

"There's nothing you or Spock can do, Bones. I'd rather he didn't know."

They stared at each other in a silent battle of wills for a long time. Finally McCoy shrugged.

"I still think this is a mistake. But I won't tell him."

"Thanks," Kirk breathed out in relief. "And, uh, sorry for leaving you here."

"I'll manage," McCoy said. After the initial shock was gone, there was nothing but work to be done. "It's my job, Captain."

Kirk nodded slowly, signaling his understanding and respect. He squeezed McCoy's arm once again and headed outside.

McCoy looked over the bodies, starting to formulate a plan of action for his staff. The colonists would have to be notified, but only after his crew would have sorted this out. He would not allow the civilians to see this abattoir.

The warm wind touched his hair, ruffling it teasingly, and McCoy suddenly shivered. In his head, the bagpipes began to play. Gradually picking up the pace, the ground-born melody was mounting higher and higher, its true, natural polyphony spiraling around a steel core. An earth-bound song that would never reach the skies. Imprisoned by the gravitation, and forever gushing its eternal yearning towards whatever sun shined over it.

Shaking off his reverie, McCoy turned to meet the medical team.


	11. Roses Are Red

Uhura walked into her quarters, feeling tired as if she had been mining dilithium for eight hours, not pulling an ordinary shift on the Bridge. It had been two days since they left the Miraxine colony, and the crew had slowly begun to come back to life after a major shakedown. Most of them hadn't been on the planet, and those who had been didn't talk. She spent a disturbing evening with Sulu the night before, wishing there was some way she could have helped him. She caught him at lunch today though, and he seemed to have pretty much bounced back. Well, she thought philosophically, long years in outer space would do this to you.

She motioned the lights to half capacity, and walked over to her drawer, reaching for her favorite silk gown she preferred to wear off duty.

Chekov worried her, too. He hadn't been down to Miraxine, yet in the past two days he seemed much more 'out there' than those who had. She couldn't get it. She knew about the reprimand he had drawn, but his responses made her believe that it was not the source of his predicament. He refused to talk and, in fact, had gone out of his way to avoid her.

She sighed, getting out of her uniform. It was not just the mission, she was certain. It was gruesome, no denying that, but they had been through rough times before. Certainly, it had been no less stressful when a telepathic entity took control over the ship, killing crewmembers at will. Or when Khan Noonien Singh held the whole Bridge crew hostage, threatening to kill all of them one by one. When the landing party was imprisoned by a Romulan rebel to be mercilessly tortured until the Captain managed to rescue them. When they had all been reduced to mere salt cubes by the Kelvans. Or when they were locked in mortal combat with the Klingons on board their own ship.

No, she thought determinedly. This crew had been through a lot together. However disturbing, this was merely another mission. After all, they were Starfleet officers, trained to deal with the unexpected, however unpleasant this unexpected might be. That was not the reason for Chekov's withdrawal either.

And what a stupid boy, really! Did he honestly think that he could send a message from the _Enterprise_ and she wouldn't know about it? Unbelievable presumption. He tried to mask it, and did that pretty well, she had to grant him that. Might have fooled Liz, if that was her shift. But Uhura was too long in this business to get tricked by a rouse like that.

After due consideration though, she decided not to confront him about it. Whoever this Maryann Roberts was, Chekov obviously felt better after talking to her. Uhura had only just seen him and Sulu heading for the Mess together, and that was definitely an improvement. Perhaps she should leave it at that.

Tender smooth silk slid naturally down her body, soothing her skin with a soft touch. She sighed lightly in simple pleasure and walked over to the mirror, reaching for her hairbrush. She loved to brush her hair until it shined.

The funny thing was, she was only paying close attention to the personal correspondence folder because she was expecting yet another message from Theo.

Ah, Theo. Theodore Papadopoulos, the great pianist. Her mentor, her hero, and a friend of her heart for what—ten years? He was the one who guided her bright but untamed talent through the musical disciplines. He educated her in music personally, broadening her knowledge, teaching her to treat her voice as a fine-tuned instrument. And he was a musician known all over the Federation.

How do you tell someone like that that you don't love them anymore?

That perhaps you never did...

She sighed and put the brush away, staring at her own reflection.

There were the times when she worshiped him. They met when she was very young, and of course she was completely smitten with him. His attention flattered her, and his kindness to her seemed to have no limits. He was lenient enough to let her join Starfleet, confident to wait while her 'childhood' would be finally over. He was a man of Art and he considered Starfleet a playground. So, he let her play.

What he hadn't anticipated, apparently, what Uhura had not expected herself, was that Starfleet would give her the measure of herself that she never had before. That it would give her a direction and a sense of purpose and confidence in herself, unlike anything she had ever felt. She stared at her reflection, realizing that she was missing her uniform in the mirrored image. This was who she had become. A Starfleet officer. The one who had sworn duty to the Federation. This was no small achievement. She could not—would not dismiss that.

She remembered vividly the day of her graduation. As she repeated the words of the pledge, she believed in them with all her heart, and yet she doubted herself. Would she be worthy? Would she be able?

Her years of service had been an answer enough. She would have to tell Theo, a man from whom she had seen nothing but good. She would have to hurt him. She buried her face in her hands.

How could she possibly do it?

Enervated, she walked over to her bed, wishing to dive under the blanket and try to forget about the ominous dilemma. Suddenly, an object caught her eye, and she stared at it for several moments, uncomprehending.

There was a single vermilion rose lying on top of her bed. Its stem was filleted with a velvet malachite-green band with a single gold symbol on it. Curious, Uhura reached out and took the flower, inhaling the exquisite smell, even as her fingers straightened out the band to look at the symbol closer. Her heart suddenly sank and then began to pound erratically.

The symbol was, in fact, a pictogram used as a complex concept, not as a letter, in High Vulcan.

The concept was 'desire.'

She sat on the bed heavily, staring at the rose wide-eyed.

Spock came to her mind immediately, but it only took her a second to dismiss the idea. She could not and had no wish to deny that there had been certain vibes running in-between them. She was more than a little excited to discover that the thought of her made him recite Byron. Yet, they had been friends for many years. Spock was her mentor, not only in Vulcan lyre and Vulcan language, but also in life. She looked up at him whenever she was in doubt. She looked up at him whenever she needed to know if she was doing the right thing. She hadn't realized it until now, but Spock seemed to have become her personal measurement of morality and ethics.

There were a lot of things she did not know about him, but she was certain, all her instincts in complete agreement, that if Spock had developed a deeper feeling for her, he would have approached her in an open and frank manner. He would not have wasted time and energy sending cryptic messages, which could be disregarded or misinterpreted. She did not know how, but she knew as surely as that her name was Nyota Uhura that had Spock felt this way about her, he would not have made her guess. He respected her too much for that. No, tempting as the idea might have seemed at a certain point, not to mention flattering, she was fairly sure that Spock had nothing to do with this.

With a frown she considered the possibility of a practical joke. But not only the two most likely perpetrators of such a pun were currently pretty much preoccupied with their own affairs, there was also little point in playing this particular joke on her. Christine Chapel would have been a much more _logical_ target.

Besides, there was too much consideration in the gesture to be a joke. Uhura was not the Communications Officer for nothing. She spoke many languages and the language of Earth flowers was one of them. White roses were the symbol of purity. Pink roses signified a sweet romance for young people. Yellow was the color of friendship, compassion, also regret and condolences. And this particular shade of dark blood-red, sometimes called incarnadine, was a symbol of passionate love. Human passionate love. The velvet of the band, on the other hand, was a perfect match for the color of Vulcan blood. Uhura happened to know for a fact that for that reason this deep, rich, slightly bluish green was the symbolic color of passion on Vulcan. Rarely shown, only when the intentions had been crystal clear.

She shivered. That really left her with only one possible answer.

Sudak. It was Sudak who had left her that rose. It was unbelievable. But it must have been true.

Carefully placing the flower on the nightstand, Uhura stretched out on her bed, looking at it.

This was unexpected. Or was it? With a sigh, she admitted she had been flirting with him. But that was a purely defensive reaction! He made her nervous, with his constant repressed criticism, so she reached for her most reliable weapon. She didn't really mean anything by it... or did she?

This was ridiculous. Nobody liked Sudak. The Captain stiffened each time the Vulcan walked into the room. Spock's face turned so completely devoid of any expression, it was frightening. McCoy grunted continuously about nosy strangers. Scott regarded him with clear suspicion. Chekov and Sulu just frowned and tried to avoid any contact. It must have been clear for her, whose side she must be on.

And yet, Sudak intrigued her. She couldn't help wondering about him. And this gesture, this rose, this was certainly way out of character for any Vulcan she had ever met. Her heart gave a panicked leap. What if it was the real thing? Maybe they could have something special?

 _Sure_ , her inner voice told her scornfully. _Something special. Like you and Theo used to have. Only now you agonize about how to tell him that this 'something special' is over and starting a new romance at the same time with one person, whom all of your friends and colleagues hate. Bravo, Nyota. As a matter of fact, bravissimo. What are you going to do next? Hijack the_ Enterprise _and marry some Klingon commander? Wouldn't that be a top achievement for your glowing career?_

She groaned softly, moving restlessly in her bed. Finally, she stood up, took the rose and placed it on the shelf near the door to dispose of it in the morning. She would do the right thing.

In the morning, after having a few hours of fitful sleep, she took the rose back to her sleeping area and placed it carefully in a vase, before leaving for her duty shift.

 

 

\--

 

An unsophisticated observer would have noted nothing different in Captain Kirk's behavior, as the _Enterprise_ renewed its patrol of the sector. The Captain seemed to be his normal pleasant self, unerringly following his routine and as efficient in his duties as ever. He didn't avoid his normal activities, in fact, he might have even doubled them. He was a living proof of the fact that starship captains were people of a different sort, of some higher quality, who had a special connection with all things possible and who controlled their reactions with diligence of an android.

There were only a handful of people aboard who might have questioned the authenticity of this model officer image, and only two among those who could actually steal a glance or two through it. McCoy obviously had an upper hand in this particular round, and what he saw, as the days enrolled slowly forward, had both reassured and worried him.

The first thing that sprang to view was that Jim tried to be around people as much as possible. It was almost as though he was surreptitiously seeking reassurance of their continuous existence, of their unwavering commitment, of their ever-surviving optimism and faith. Jim usually touched people a lot; he had primarily a kinesthetic persona, which McCoy could have told without consulting his medical file. At the moment he seemed to almost double the frequency of casual physical contact. It was as if he was constantly in need of having proof of the actual presence of other beings in the same physical universe. Hardly anyone noticed, but McCoy had been Jim's physician and unofficial counselor for too long a time to miss it. Over the years, he had learnt that, for Jim, it was a usual reaction to a particularly close call. It helped him feel safer, while he regained his equilibrium.

He tried to be around people, and among them, he particularly tried to be around Spock. In four days that passed since their distressing visit to Miraxine, the Captain and the First Officer had spent more time together than in four weeks before that.

McCoy knew, he saw it in Spock's face, read it easily in the ever-elevated eyebrow, that Spock was wondering as for a reason. The Doctor also knew that he would not ask. Jim was practically drowning him in touches, obviously overloading his defenses, and still he would not ask and would not pull away. On the contrary, Spock seemed to be out of his way to alleviate Jim's cravings. He would place his hand on Jim's shoulder instead of the back of his chair on the Bridge, or rest a hand on his arm fleetingly, or brush Jim's hand with his fingers lightly while showing him something on the viewer, or simply hold his wrist while talking to Jim. And every time he would deliberately fail to notice Jim's grateful, if mildly embarrassed look, and he would not ask.

McCoy knew the reason for that as well. Jim did not want to talk about it. Not to him, not to Spock, not to anyone. Whatever was eating at him, he preferred to deal with it on his own. Perhaps he didn't want to harm his image of invincible captain, or simply didn't want to trouble his friends with his burdens. He might have felt uncomfortable discussing it, or saw no point in doing so. It could have easily been any of those reasons, or none, or all. McCoy had his suspicions, at the very least, a starting point, while he knew that Spock didn't. But the Vulcan could obviously sense Jim's wishes just fine.

Of course, this wasn't the first time it had happened. The first time McCoy had really noticed it was after their unfortunate expedition in the heart of the Murasaki effect. McCoy was still mad at Spock over it, though not for the same reason as before. Spock's overly logical command style back then had been at odds with McCoy's own behavior, bordering on insubordination. No, he was still mad because if it wasn't for Spock's scientific curiosity in the phenomenon, they wouldn't have gone to the blasted trip in the first place. But then, the Doctor admitted reluctantly, Spock was a science officer and was paid exactly for being curious.

The prospect of losing three of his senior officers and friends had given Kirk a thorough shake. That was when his tactile way of receiving confirmation of their continuous survival had caught McCoy's attention. He remembered feeling amused and heartily warmed at the same time, and he had, of course, no objections. Neither, to his surprise, did Spock. Perhaps it was exactly the Vulcan's easy acceptance that brought it to light; otherwise McCoy might have missed it. Spock normally froze people out of his personal space with efficiency worthy of a better employment. McCoy made a mental note and had the sense to keep his observations to himself.

But ever since then he had been alert, and very soon realized that this wasn't an isolated incident, but a pattern. From the early days of the mission, Jim and Spock had met about three times a week in the gym for a training session. After the destruction of the gigantic amoeba organism, a mission which very nearly had cost Spock his life, they worked out every night for nine days in a row. McCoy raised his eyebrows and said nothing. The next week it was five training sessions, then four, and finally it fell back to the usual three days a week arrangement.

From then on, McCoy had easily picked up the traces of the familiar derivative. It wasn't always necessarily something as screaming as workouts, but it was noticeable for a keen observer nonetheless. It was obvious after Kirk's return from his two-month accidental stranding on Amerind. It was obvious after their experience with the Vians. It was blatantly obvious after the unfortunate accident in the Tholian space, and even more so after Janice Lester's attack.

None of the three had ever breached the subject. Spock was silent in respect for his Captain's privacy; Kirk—because he labored under the illusion that they hadn't noticed, if he even had noticed himself, which was open for debate; and McCoy had nothing to complain about. Jim had passed all tests with flying colors, and one could plainly see that he was feeling better.

McCoy could tell that Spock had pretty much come to the same conclusions he had, though perhaps a little bit faster. There was a certain measure of silent understanding between them, almost a conspiracy, as they both tried to meet Jim's needs at times when his personal internal world had been shaken up by tremors. Spock would allow Jim to take as much of his time as he wished, would act very much out of character for a Vulcan, would even initiate unnecessary contact, and McCoy would keep his mouth shut, never teasing either of them about it, never drawing attention to the fact.

McCoy was grateful that Spock hadn't backed out now. The way the Vulcan seemed to have distanced himself lately, this prospect was a serious concern for the Doctor and he was happy to see it was groundless.

But, this time, something did not fit the habitual picture. McCoy couldn't quite tell what it was, but oftentimes in the last few days he had felt uneasy. It had finally dawned on him only in the evening of the fourth day, when he was watching Jim and Spock play chess in the Rec Room.

What would happen, McCoy thought suddenly, if something should happen to Spock?

He chided himself for the thought. He was far from wishing the Vulcan ill in any way imaginable, in fact, as far from that as one could get. But they were in a dangerous line of work. What was more, Spock was a risk-taker, pretty much like Jim. Despite their very different background, they were of a kind in this regard—both jumped into danger headfirst, only then pausing to think if there was any other way.

He forced himself to think the disturbing thought till the end.

What would happen if Spock... was there no longer? Not necessarily killed or hurt, just gone? Transported into some other universe to live a happy life there? Where would that leave them?

And suddenly, oh so suddenly, this whole arrangement didn't seem like a good idea anymore.

A twinge of guilt ran through McCoy, as he thought about it. He realized suddenly that in all the years that he had been Jim's physician, he had come to rely on Spock to restore Jim's wellbeing almost as much as on his own medicine. How many times did he think something along the lines, 'Spock would know how to make the Captain feel better'? 'Spock would cover any painful ground McCoy didn't reach'? 'Spock would know what to say'? 'Spock would always be there'? McCoy had come to rely on such notions too strongly. He was grateful that he had this tool at his disposal. Five years were a long time. Long enough to develop a subconscious belief that it would last forever.

What would they do if forever ended?

Across the room, he watched as Jim moved a chess piece and looked up at his partner triumphantly. Spock examined the move with a cocked eyebrow, glanced up and—smiled. His lips hardly moved, his expression remained serene, yet there was no mistake in reading it. He said something. Jim threw his head back and laughed.

McCoy shut his eyes for a moment, feeling decisively unwell. This was wrong. Very, very wrong, very dangerous. Why didn't he see this before? How could he, a physician and a psychologist, have let this happen? The answer seemed cruel, but true in its ugliness.

It was convenient to let it happen. Very damn convenient.

He had been trying for almost five years to draw the human out of Spock. Now he was suddenly seized by a fierce wish that Spock would have been more Vulcan about it. Much more Vulcan.

Spock stood up, bowed his head slightly, obviously thanking the Captain for the game, and left. Jim got up to his feet, too, and strode over to Uhura and Chapel, who were playing some exotic version of solitaire. He stayed at their table for some time, observing and trading jokes.

McCoy sighed. This was good for Jim, he reflected, trying to alleviate the pangs his conscience was giving him. Heck, if it were as simple as a hurt-comfort relationship between them, he wouldn't have worried. A source of comfort, however good, could always be replaced. If it was nothing, but a source of comfort.

But that was not the case.

All those five years ago, when McCoy had first come on board and picked up the growing and deepening bond between Jim and Spock, he vividly remembered feeling happy. He didn't know Spock that well yet, but he was so happy for Jim. McCoy had been his friend, close friend, for many years, but Jim needed someone who could also be his comrade. Someone who could be a match for his energy, his quick mind, his strength of will. He didn't need a guardian, but a brother in arms; not a follower, but a kindred spirit. He needed someone who would both support him and stand up to him when he was in the wrong. He had found all that in Spock, and McCoy was delighted.

Until now.

Who was to say when a 'warm decent feeling' would transform into pathology? Was this happening before his eyes? Or was he simply being paranoid, frightened of his own shadow?

The thought certainly reoccurred, as the next day, Jim and Spock had only reconvened during a staff meeting and later for lunch, with McCoy joining them. The Vulcan then headed back to his Lab via Engineering, and Kirk was going to work through an Intelligence report in his study. Both seemed fine enough, Spock somewhat aloof, though no more than usual, and Kirk relaxed and vibrant. Another storm left behind. Business as usual.

 _Was_ he afraid of his own shadow? McCoy asked himself, even as Kirk had questioned him about Scotty. It had been three days since the Chief Engineer had regained full contact with reality, not veiled anymore by drugs, and had been released from Sick Bay, having previously rolled McCoy up the wall with his demands to be 'set free.'

Sick Bay. Something was in that thought. Maybe he should look up some records to lighten his worry. Surely, if something was really wrong, it would have shown? Jim certainly was a survivor, and Spock... Now that gave McCoy a pause. His curiosity stirred.

How did Spock justify this relationship to his Vulcan heritage? Friendship was certainly not a sin on Vulcan, but it was a relationship of a distinctly different kind. Not even McCoy's own friendship with Spock would have fitted into that sterile picture, and surely not his bond with Jim. Still, Spock was a logical man, as he was so fond of saying, and this was a point McCoy had to grant him for free. What logical reason did he have to allow this closeness? In McCoy's opinion, emotions of this nature required no justification, but then McCoy wasn't a Vulcan. If he knew anything about Spock, and he knew a great deal, Spock would require an explanation, preferably a rational one. Perhaps McCoy should ask him to share his rationalization with him, so that McCoy's conscience would choke to death, being unable to swallow that much cold and dispassionate logic in one gulp.

That was some idea. Better yet check those medical records first, just in case.

"Bones?"

He flinched as a hand was waved in front of his eyes.

"What?" he snapped unexpectedly, as Kirk's voice brought him out of his musings.

The Captain's eyebrows rose slightly at the curt response.

"Why, nothing, Doctor. It's just that I don't enjoy talking to a wall usually. Mind letting me in on the joke?"

"Sorry, Jim. You told a joke?"

Kirk was looking at him through narrowed eyes.

"Bones, are you stoned?"

McCoy blinked.

Kirk sighed, glancing at the chronometer.

"Look, I'm already late for Giotto, but maybe you can stop by my quarters later?"

"You have a conference call with Command," McCoy reminded him. "Uhura said—"

"Oh, yes. Damn. I'll probably be up all night sorting the mess they'd toss at me."

"That's one way of looking at it. What did you want to talk about, anyway?"

Kirk stood up, draining the last of his coffee.

"Well, you, actually," he said, looking at his friend somewhat warily. "You've been one awfully long face lately, Bones. Is everything all right?"

McCoy couldn't help but stare at him, the irony of the situation sinking its teeth in the roots of his self-control.

"Yes, Jim," he replied with a wry grin. "I didn't know you cared."

Kirk frowned.

"I don't know what that's supposed to mean, and I don't have the time right now, but I'll find some," he promised grimly. "Till then, Doctor."

McCoy shook his head, watching him leave. This was one nasty, jumbled, screwed up mess of a situation. And Spock had better not turn up in Sick Bay for yet another late night visit, or this was going to get even more nasty, jumbled and completely screwed.

He sighed, smiling at himself. Wasn't it ironic that, in the end, it was up to _him_ and his ability to restrain _his_ emotions to get them through all this safely and relatively sane? He thought it was ironic. But not very helpful, though. Not helpful at all.


	12. The Haunted Ship

It wasn't ever really dark on a starship. From the early years of space exploration, physicians and psychologists had insisted that lights, though they could not be extinguished completely for reasons of security and safety, should be dimmed and restored in accordance with the biological cycle of a human organism. Of course, time in space was invariably a matter of condition. Manning a starship was not a nine-to-five work. The 'store' wasn't closed for the night, ever. But the night must be marked nonetheless.

Along the years, the opinions of the medical community had split, as it so often happened. Some doctors advocated that it would have been easier for personnel posted on the evening and night shifts, if there had been no day/night division. The idea was tested and—failed. It turned out that humans could adapt just fine to low or high G, different atmosphere parameters, and synthesized food, but they were unable to cope with the deviations from the standard twenty-four hour cycle. From 'normal' night and day.

And so Chekov crawled along the corridors of Deck 6 in the ship's twilight, in the dim light of late twenty-three hundred. Summoning all his knowledge of the ship's operations, he calculated the exact time to fulfill his intentions. Sick Bay wasn't by far his favorite place, but he was observant and he was resilient. What was more, he knew exactly what he wanted. He had a plan.

He stopped short in the shadow of a deck partition, glanced at the chronometer and waited. He knew there would be no one in the waiting room at this hour, except for the nurse on duty. And it was about time for her to step out for some refreshments.

Normally, for that purpose, one didn't have to leave Sick Bay. It had its own replicator system, as well as numerous lavatories. But it was Nurse Bana's shift, and her weakness towards lemon tarts that usually appeared in the galley around that time to cheer up those pulling the graveyard shift, was legendary. She never could resist sneaking out, just for a few minutes, to steal a piece. It was a habit which had earned her a lot of reprimands and on which Chekov was now counting.

 _C'mon_ , he urged her silently. _It's there already. What are you waiting for?_

He heard the doors hiss open and stilled against the wall. Nurse Bana marched past him, humming dully on her way. Chekov looked after her with a mixture of gratitude and light revulsion. Already she didn't fit into standard women's uniform dress and had to wear pants. But if she didn't stop soon, she'd definitely have problems passing the next fitness test.

Chekov waited till she disappeared into the turbolift. He stepped into the corridor, glancing warily in both directions. Having made certain he was alone, he crossed hurriedly towards Sick Bay doors and entered.

It was darker here than in the corridor, with only a desk lamp providing some light. Not that he needed much. He paused at the door, listening in, but everything was quiet. He walked over to a medical cabinet at the side wall and typed the access code. It was the same access code the medical storage cabinets had for years, and the one he knew so very well. He figured it out when Doctor McCoy had made him spend a fortnight in Sick Bay, claiming it was vital to make sure the tos'la fever was gone and would not return. He had been bored out of his wits, and as McCoy forbade him to read, so that he would not overexert his eyes, he had to look for other means of entertainment. Breaking the storage code had brought him some measure of vindictive pleasure.

A drawer slid open at once. His hand dived into it, as if it had intellect of its own, and acted as his accomplice rather than a part of his body. It searched to close around a familiar vial—and couldn't find it. Frowning, Chekov leaned lower, trying to see the contents in the scarce light. It should be there. It was always there, in that very place. He could find it with his eyes folded. Why wasn't it there?

"Can I help you?"

He jumped, spinning around, palms curling into fists, arms moving to a defense position.

Christine Chapel stood in the middle of the room quietly, her hands akimbo. She was looking at him with slightly raised eyebrows, not affected by his belligerent posture.

"Chris," Chekov breathed out, his shoulders relaxing in relief. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

Her eyebrows went even higher.

"Why, Chekov, I work here, remember?"

"It's not your watch."

"So? I was actually studying back there. I heard someone moving in here. What are you up to? And how did you open that cabinet?"

He shrugged.

"It's not a problem. Your security measures are so primitive, a child could open them."

"Really? Well, maybe Commander Giotto would like to hear about that. You mind if I call him?"

She started for the comm, and he moved quickly to block her way.

"Wait, Chris," he pleaded. "I'm sorry. I just wanted something for headache."

"You have a headache?" she frowned instantly and reached around him for a medical scanner. "Why couldn't you just say so?"

"I could not," he said slowly, following the movements of the scanner with his eyes apprehensively. "If I came to a doctor, they would have to put it in the log. It is the third headache this week. I do not want it to be in my record."

She stared at him incredulously, flipping the scanner off with a clap.

"So you decided to sneak in here, break the code, which you aren't supposed to know, and steal medicine? If anyone caught you, _that_ would have looked great on your record."

"But nobody caught me."

"What am I, a figment of your imagination? Chekov, this might be dangerous."

"If you don't tell—"

"I'm not talking about the regs. You might be seriously damaging your health!"

He frowned at her, folding his arms across his chest.

"You scanned me. Is it serious?"

"No," she admitted reluctantly. "But if you say it's the third time this week—"

"I had a hard week," he thought quickly and spoke the first thing that sprang to mind. "You've heard of the reprimand. I'm... agonizing."

The trick didn't work.

"You're agonizing all right," Chapel pursed her lips. "But the reprimand has nothing to do with it. What's happening to you? You look terrible."

Indeed he was. Always slim, he now looked positively skinny. His light-brown eyes were dark and bleak, with ominous rims under them. His mouth thinned, and he looked tense almost to a painful degree.

Chekov shrugged and glanced away.

"Look, I only want a pill..."

Christine regarded him strictly, then sighed. She walked over to the table, picked up a hypospray from a medical kit, and returned to his side to give him a shot. His eyes were shiny with guilt and gratitude, as he looked up at her.

"I'll make a deal with you," Chapel stated firmly. "I won't tell anyone I saw you in here, but next time you have a headache you'll come to me first, all right?" when he didn't answer, she pushed, "All right?"

Chekov sighed. "Deal."

"Off with you, then. I have another article to review."

He was feeling better already. A distraction, he thought, as he strode towards the turbolift. He desperately needed a distraction. Not to hear that voice, not to see that face. Anything that would require his full attention would work. Anything at all.

Maryann knew. She knew that her ex-boyfriend had joined the _Nailers_. She knew and she didn't tell him.

' _We broke up two years ago, Pasha, and frankly it wasn't a good-natured goodbye. I never thought he could become something like this. I didn't tell you, anyone, because I was ashamed.'_

' _Maryann, what they did down on that planet—' his voice caught. He swallowed with difficulty and tried again. 'How could Alex have ever joined these monsters?'_

 _She bit her lip._

' _He joined them five years ago, when they weren't so violent. He said they had the right ideas,' she paused, blinking off the tears. 'He sent me a message last week. Said he wanted us to be together again. Said he wanted to leave them. That he couldn't... But this is like the Mob, isn't it? You can only leave it one way.'_

' _If he wasn't on that ship... Maybe I could have...'_

' _No,' she shook her head expressively. 'Look, Pasha, I know you've always argued with him. So have I. Made me a better person, those arguments. But you know that once his mind was set, there wasn't anything anyone could have done to change it. And you and I were never an authority with him. It was his choice.'_

' _But he wanted to quit,' Chekov whispered. 'He wanted to quit, and I—I killed him.'_

' _No, listen,' she looked at him so intently, as if trying to reach him through all the thousands of light years between them. 'You said it yourself you don't know why the ship had exploded. And even if it was your firing, you were only following orders.'_

 _But I wasn't_ , he thought then in agony. _I wasn't_.

Spock's words came back hitting him like a boomerang.

 _Had you not fired first..._

He walked into an empty turbolift cabin, feeling utterly miserable. Why was it suddenly that everything he did was wrong? Every choice he made seemed to be the wrong one. Every decision flawed. It was as if something had broken deep inside him, and he couldn't figure out what it was to try and mend it.

And he couldn't talk to anyone. Maryann was far away. And his friends here—what would they think of him if they knew he used to be friends with one of the _Nailers_? Sulu could barely speak when he beamed up from that planet. How could Chekov tell him he knew one of the monsters who had done that terrible thing?

How, for that matter, would he look Spock in the eye, or the Captain?

As if Irina's show a year ago wasn't enough. But at least, her sect was peaceful. For the most part.

The lift had begun to slow down, and Chekov straightened up forcibly, putting on his best neutrally cheerful expression. It felt awkward and uncomfortable, like a shoe two sizes small, but it would have to do. He could not tell them the truth. He could not lose what little respect and trust he had earned.

The Bridge welcomed him with its usual quiet buzz of a smoothly working mechanism. And as he sat down at his station, he allowed the blissful power of the usual routine to engulf him, making it easier to push the frightening thoughts to the back of his mind.

 

 

\--

 

"Well, why am I not surprised?" McCoy drawled, stepping into the Officers' Mess.

It was late in the Gamma shift, and the _Enterprise_ was quiet and dim. On his way from Sick Bay, the Doctor had only met two crewmen. Right now, though, five pairs of eyes were staring back at him from the two occupied tables. Scotty and Spock, their heads bent close together over a padd, glanced up at him with identical frowns of irritation upon being interrupted, though the Vulcan's was by far less expressive. Uhura, who sat quietly at their table sipping coffee, turned back gracefully to stare at him. At the other table, Christine and Sulu stopped the mild flow of their conversation.

"I assume you are not surprised, Doctor, because the situation is not completely unfamiliar to you," Spock intoned, straightening up.

"Not completely unfamiliar?" McCoy repeated with a wry grin. "That's some understatement. The situation is so overly familiar that I can tell you what you all are doing here in this ungodly hour better than you can," his eyes glinted malevolently.

"That should prove interesting," Spock observed, folding his arms across his chest.

"Not really," McCoy accepted the challenge. "You, Spock, are the most predictable. You think that your Vulcan physiology is a warrant to go without sleep for as long as you like. Scotty here has had another divine insight while dreaming, and of course, he can't wait till morning to share it with you. Uhura's still on the night shift—I take it, it's your mid-shift break, Lieutenant? Nurse Chapel is too anxious to sleep while the results for her mid-term paper are still to be received. And Sulu," McCoy paused, then shrugged. "I have no idea what you're doing here."

"I'm on the night watch, too, Doctor," the Helmsman grinned. "I swapped shifts with DePaul."

"But if you're here, who's manning the helm?"

Sulu's grin grew wider.

"Chekov. He said he needed practice."

"Heaven protect us," McCoy grumbled. "So, how'd I do, Spock?"

The First Officer appeared serene to the point of boredom.

"Doctor, your deductions, however accurate, would have been a great deal more impressive, if you did not happen to come across the same or similar contingent of ship's personnel numerous times before."

"At least twice a week for the last year and something," McCoy walked towards the replicator to retrieve some tea. "I'm beginning to think you've all turned into vampires."

Spock's eyebrow creased slightly. "If you insist on supernatural allusions, Doctor, may I note that your habit of haunting the ship at night while not on duty is bearing striking resemblance to the behavioral patterns of the Canterville Ghost?"

McCoy's crystal-blue eyes clouded dangerously. "You're comparing me to a _ghoul_?"

"Indeed. Perhaps we should ask Mr. Scott to manufacture suitable chains, so that we would be apprised of your approach in advance and could take appropriate actions."

"Aye, Mr. Spock. It'd be a pleasure. And a nice clinking they would give, too."

"Behold the Specter of Sick Bay," Sulu sang darkly. "Where no man should go unwarned."

Uhura snickered into her cup.

"Oh, very funny," McCoy drawled sourly, curling his hands around his mug. "It's not healthy, people, and I mean it. When are you going to get this simple fact into your heads?"

"When ye'll show us responsibility by example?" Scott suggested.

"It will be a long time, then," Chapel said.

McCoy's eyes bored into her.

"You're one ungrateful woman, you know that? Here," he took a data chip out of his pocket and handed it to her. "It's the article you were looking for. I came across it in the library banks, entirely by accident, mind you..."

The Nurse beamed at him.

"Really, Doctor, I—I don't know what to say, how to thank you," she took the chip and squeezed his hand affectionately.

"Oh, come, Nurse," he grunted, pulling his hand away, covering his embarrassment with anger. "I told you it was by accident. But if you want a decent review of that biomechanics paper of yours, you'll have to wait another week."

Her cheeks colored slightly, as she glanced at Spock quickly, then dropped her gaze to the deck.

"I... You won't have to..."

"Ms. Chapel asked me to provide a review of her work," Spock explained calmly. "Knowing how busy you were, of course."

"Of course, and you happened to be absolutely free, did you?" McCoy grinned wryly, watching his Head Nurse turning positively crimson. Spock raised an eyebrow at him, and the Doctor laughed. Being First Officer and Science Officer, the Vulcan had his hands full, especially in view of the ongoing inspection. But McCoy knew perfectly well, as apparently did Christine, that Spock would sooner eat meat than turn down a request for assistance from any of the crew. "Why, Ms. Chapel, I didn't know you actually would find the courage to do it."

"Don't listen to him, lassie," Scott looked at her sympathetically, while Uhura stared reproachfully at the Doctor.

"I see no reasons for your skepticism, Doctor," Spock remarked coolly. "Courage is not a quality Ms. Chapel lacks."

If Christine appeared flushed before, now she was almost steaming. Uhura glanced at Spock gratefully before standing up.

"Well, my break's over," she announced, depositing her empty cup to the dispenser. "Can I have a go at the helm, Sulu? Chekov's been piloting for a whole hour now."

"Oh good God," McCoy groaned in desperation. "Are we a kids' training vessel now? Spock. You're the First Officer—exercise some authority over these people!"

"If you must insist, Doctor," Spock glanced at Uhura impassively. "You may have a go at the helm, Lieutenant."

" _Spock!_ "

Uhura flashed a blinding smile at the Vulcan. "Thank you, sir."

"Don't worry, Doctor," Sulu grinned at him, coming to his feet as well. "If we bump into anything, you'll know before we do."

"That's reassuring," McCoy grunted, sliding into Uhura's chair.

Christine rose to follow them out. "Thanks for the article, Doctor."

McCoy watched her leave sourly.

"Anytime," he turned to look at Scott. "What are you up to, anyway?"

The Engineer peered at him skeptically.

"I dinna know ye were interested in engineering, Doctor."

"Try me."

"I'm figuring out a way to improve our plasma inducers. See the schematics here. I ran a test over it in my quarters, but the variants were way off. I'm thinking if Mr. Spock could maybe help with calculating the exact pressure I might have another go."

"Not tonight, I hope," McCoy frowned at him.

"I canna sleep with this in my head anyway," Scott shook his head empathically. "I need to know if it can work out."

"Obsessed," McCoy noted grudgingly. "The whole lot of you is just that—obsessed."

"Vulcans cannot be obsessed, Doctor."

"Then it's 'possessed' in your case. Do Vulcans have evil spirits?"

A cold voice beat Spock to an answer, startling both humans to nearly falling out of their chairs.

"That is a highly illogical concept."

Commissioner Sudak emerged from the back of the room, where he sat for a long while, concealed by the dim lights.

"Good God, man," Scott breathed out heavily. "Ye coulda said ye were there."

"Nearly gave us a heart attack," McCoy complained, eyeing him with distinct animosity.

The Vulcan looked at him levelly.

"I am not responsible for your failure to notice my presence," he stated coldly. "Mr. Spock. I require approximately one point four hour of your time."

Spock rose to his feet at once. "I am at your disposal, Commissioner."

"Very well. Attend me."

McCoy frowned at his cool commanding tone, watching both Vulcans leave the room.

"I don't like this lad ordering Mr. Spock around," Scott said, scowling after them. "And just when we started to get somewhere, too."

"Well, I don't like this guy either," McCoy pursed his lips in disapproval. "Just what we needed. Another Vulcan to harass people. As if Spock didn't get on our nerves enough."

Scott smirked wryly. "Mr. Spock is as much a part of this ship as the warp core, Doctor. Vulcan or no Vulcan, he's one of us. This Sudak lad, though, now that's another story."

"You know something?" McCoy glanced at him sharply. Scott often surprised him with deep insights on the internal policies of Starfleet.

The Engineer shook his head.

"Not really. All I know is that he's not supposed to be here, not this early, and yet he is."

"Not this early?"

"At the end of a mission, they usually send someone to make an audit, an external perspective of how things were run. If the ship's in range, of course. But that never happened here with three months of the mission still to go. Nah, this lad is up to something."

"What makes you say that?"

"Doctor, I have been in charge of Engineering during two such inspections before, and I've seen a hell of a lot of more before then. I have never known such an uninterested, unscrupulous inspector. He dinna find a blasted thing wrong with my engines—and they always do."

"I thought you ran a pretty neat place down there."

"Aye, but those observers always find something to sink their teeth in, take my word. That's their job to question everything we do here. They always find something non-regulation to complain about. And this Sudak, he dinna even stick around for that long. Ye'd think he was on a tour."

"That's odd," McCoy mused. "He hasn't been to Sick Bay yet, I'm expecting him any day now."

"I'll bet ye a week's pay that he won't find a thing wrong with yer place, either."

McCoy held his eyes for a moment, fighting his own apprehension.

"I don't like it," he said finally. "I don't know what's going on and I don't like it."

Scotty answered with a wry look and a shrug.

"Join the club," he rose up to his feet, stifling a yawn. "Ye know, Doctor, maybe I should take yer advice after all. I don't think Mr. Spock will be back any time soon."

"And my company isn't good enough to keep you out of bed in the middle of the night?" McCoy grunted. "Oh, go, go, by all means. A sleep-deprived Chief Engineer is a worse threat to the ship than Chekov at the helm."

Scotty chuckled and left, picking up his padd and deactivating it. McCoy glanced around the suddenly empty room.

"You'd think I was a ghost indeed, scaring everyone off," he muttered. "Ah well. As long as they don't really chain me."

He strode out, frowning and muttering darkly all the way down to his cabin.

 

 

\--

 

They walked in silence, but Spock knew it wouldn't last. Briefly he wondered if it was his human intuition that was finally surfacing, or the Commissioner was simply too predictable. Sudak, however, had not spoken until they reached Spock's quarters.

"Commander, you seem to be well integrated into this crew," he remarked then impassively.

"Naturally," Spock replied just as calmly, keeping his wariness at bay. "I have served aboard this ship for a very long time."

"I am familiar with your service record," Sudak nodded. "But that is not what I meant. You seem to be very much... at ease with your human shipmates."

Spock allowed his eyebrow to lift up an inch.

"Is there any reason I should not be?"

"Perhaps I do not make myself clear. In your interactions with them, you have gone far beyond what your duty requires of you. This social gathering I have just witnessed. It was by no means necessary."

"Mr. Scott wanted to discuss with me a matter of ship's business."

"Indeed?" Sudak glanced sideways at him. "I was under the impression that it was no more than a vague idea. It would have been more logical for you to make him formulate it in full before bringing to his superior officer's attention. And in any case, there was no need to discuss it in the middle of the night."

"Commissioner, I have long since discovered that if Mr. Scott is unable to discuss his idea straightaway, he becomes restless and even agitated. It is most unwise and dare I say unkind to allow this preoccupation to deprive him of his rest and continue during his duty shift. In addition, I am uncertain if you are sufficiently equipped to realize that his suggestion is, in fact, highly reasonable. I was interested to see where he was headed with it."

"In other words, you let your curiosity disrupt that human's rest period. I cannot call it responsible behavior, Commander."

"I tend to disagree. With all due respect, Commissioner, I know my colleagues better than you do."

"That much is obvious. In fact, I would say that you know them far better than you should, Mr. Spock. You are even engaged in their tedious social rituals, such as humor."

"Are you saying that my behavior has been inappropriate?"

"That depends on how you want your conduct to be judged. I do not believe that your behavior is inappropriate for a human. However, for a Vulcan, it is, at best, unorthodox."

Spock turned to face him squarely.

"Commissioner, may I speak freely?"

Sudak seized him up with an appraising gaze.

"Please do."

"I was under the impression that your mission aboard the _Enterprise_ was to observe routine operations on this ship. Why is my comportment, be it Vulcan or human, in the focus of your attention? We are not related. I hardly believe that it is your prerogative as a fellow Vulcan to judge my personal conduct."

"And now you are showing very human indignation," Sudak noted with satisfaction. "Your human colleagues might not be able to see it, but I do," he paused, scrutinizing Spock's face as if waiting for his expression to falter. When it didn't, he continued. "My mission as a federal commissioner is secondary here, Spock cha-Sarek. And I have every prerogative and every right to judge your personal conduct. I am Shari."

Spock continued to look him in the eye calmly, but how he managed it he could never tell. Shock transformed quickly into extreme apprehension, almost fear, but then anger took over.

"You should not have come unannounced," he said evenly, controlling his indignation tightly. "It is not honorable."

Sudak's eyebrows rose in unmistakable scorn.

"You speak of honor to me? You, who brought shame and disgrace to eighteen generations of the most revered Vulcan clan? The very word becomes a blasphemy coming from your lips."

"Why did they send you?"

"You dare ask me this?"

"Yes. I have the right to know."

"You have no rights. Those who defy responsibility have no rights. Do you know that when you decided to serve on a human ship your father had to vouch for your behavior? Sarek pledged that you would stay true to the Vulcan way. At first we thought you did. Some of us had even believed that you were perhaps uniquely suited to provide humans with positive influence of logic. But years of contamination have corrupted you. For the last five years, you have made contact with numerous species and cultures, introducing yourself as a Vulcan, disrupting their perception, making them think that all of us are like you. You have brought nothing but infamy on our entire culture."

"If I may ask, what was it you found so infamous in my behavior?"

"You dare ask? Not only you do not master your primitive volatile emotions—you parade them. Logic has no meaning to you."

"I do not believe that I parade anything."

"Your belief is irrelevant. Your relationship with your Captain has become legendary. That you have gone far beyond Vulcan concept of friendship is obvious. Given your dual nature, that would have been acceptable. That you would not settle for the human kind, either, is inexplicable. And unforgivable."

"I do not understand."

"You do not? Are you blind as well as unprincipled?"

"Captain Kirk is my friend. I do not deny this, but I see no reason for incrimination of that fact."

"Then it is my duty to assist you in seeing reason. How many mind-melds did you initiate since you have joined Starfleet?"

"Thirty-six."

"How many during the last five years?"

"Thirty-four."

"How many with Captain Kirk?"

"Twenty-seven."

"How many of those in the line of duty?"

There was a slight hesitation.

"Five."

"Are you beginning to see reason, Spock? Let me ask you this, then. Are you aware what that number of non duty-related melds stands for in terms of Vulcan relationships?"

Spock knew he was turning pale, but could not control his reaction. Sudak's words were Revelation to him, with a capital R, as he started to see his own unbelievable carelessness. He forced himself to speak.

"I am."

"Were you or are you planning on pursuing this form of relationship with your Captain?"

"No."

"Then how can you explain your actions?"

He could not afford a moment to collect his thoughts, and yet he realized that even given all the time in the world he would not be able to come up with an answer. Not a logical one, at least.

"I cannot give you an explanation. Except that my relationship with Captain Kirk seems to be existing outside generally accepted classification."

"For Vulcans, there can be no relationships which defy classification," Sudak snapped. "Captain Kirk is your commanding officer; you owe him your loyalty and your obedience, nothing else. What you have been doing, knowingly or not, is an abomination."

Spock had to fight his reflex to swallow, forcing himself with all the discipline he possessed to remain still and quiet.

"Is that the ruling of Shari Tcha'kla?"

Sudak's eyes narrowed.

"Shari Tcha'kla has not reached consensus on this matter. I have been sent to determine whether the situation is salvageable."

"And if it is not?"

"You will be given a choice. To be proclaimed V'tosh ka'tur. Or to undergo the Kolinahr discipline. To purge your emotions, since you are unable to master them."

Spock felt the air leaving his lungs abruptly, as if he'd been punched in the chest. The alternatives were unacceptable. To be named V'tosh ka'tur, Vulcan without logic. He would never be allowed to set foot on Vulcan again. Any Vulcan he would meet off world would not speak to him to save their lives. He would be considered a mentally imbalanced individual who willfully refused treatment. He would most certainly be discharged from Starfleet as he would lose his Vulcan citizenship. As an outcast, he would never be allowed into any public service. For Vulcan, and consequently for the Federation, he would cease to exist.

And if he submitted to Kolinahr, studied with the masters, achieved the token of pure logic, then he would become a real asset to Vulcan society. His mind and his resources would serve his people without limitations. He would have no needs or wants of his own. He would cease to exist as a person he was now.

Sudak was watching him with a knowing stare.

"Spock, Shari Tcha'kla is not unfamiliar with emotion of compassion. We understand that your heritage has placed an unprecedented burden upon you. We have bent the rules for you more times than were logically possible. But you have gone too far and we can allow it no longer. If you lived a private, solitary life, we would not be having this discussion. If you conducted yourself with the same restraint you showed while serving under Captain Pike, we would never have approached you. But you have chosen a highly visible occupation, one that allows no leniency, and you have abused your position. You have seduced an innocent human into a relationship he knows nothing about."

"I have not lied to him," Spock objected quietly. "Jim _is_ t'hy'la to me. I see nothing shameful in that."

"Spock, what is shameful, is the casual ease with which you use that word. It is not to be treated lightly."

"I do not treat it lightly, Sudak Shari. Jim is my shield-brother. I would die to protect him."

"And if there were no other way, you would kill for him?"

Spock's gaze did not waver.

"Yes."

"Spock," the elder Vulcan almost sighed. "Do you not see that you defy the very basis of our civilization? Do you not know that such relationships belong to our savage past? Do you wish us to regress into our violent barbaric ancestors?"

"Surak taught us to accept the axiom of Kaiddth. What is, is. What Jim is to me, he is. I cannot change that. It would be unwise and illogical to try."

"I believe you are mistaken. No human can truly comprehend the concept. Without comprehension, he could not give you his assent. Without his assent, you are in violation of not only every Vulcan law, but of his privacy, of his very being. You are misguided here, Spock. You project your wishes on him. And it does not seem likely that you understand what your true wishes really are."

"My true wishes?"

"Spock, I am familiar with your profile. Your mind was exceptionally sharp and logical until you had succumbed to your untamed human passions. Is it not probable that what you are experiencing is a simple attraction? For some misguided reason, you are ashamed to acknowledge it, hence cover it with ritual. Listen carefully to yourself and you will see that this is true."

Spock studied his face scrupulously, while listening intently to his own inner dialogue. But there was no doubt within him, no matter what Sudak was trying to impress upon him.

"You know nothing about us," he stated calmly. "What Captain Kirk and I had been through together has brought us closer than colleagues, closer than friends, closer than lovers even. There is nothing simple about our relationship, and your need to label anything you do not understand with primitive terms will not change that fact. I would sooner agree to become V'tosh ka'tur, than allow you or Shari Tcha'kla to interfere with what is beyond your narrow-minded comprehension."

"Careful, Spock. Words spoken in anger will most certainly be regretted later. Like I said, we are not without compassion. I am here to monitor you. If you can prove to me that you are capable of interacting with humans within the behavioral parameters acceptable for a Vulcan, I will leave. But be warned, I am not susceptible to deception. I will have your thoughts before I go. If I find any residual illogic in them—your options stand."

"And what if I refuse to accept your judgment?"

"Then, you will accept your own. Spock, this is not an ultimatum. It is a mere statement of facts. I cannot and will not force you into anything. But before I leave I will see you embrace reason on your own free will, so dearly cherished by the humans. You are Vulcan, Spock. Nothing can change that. And as a Vulcan, you will recognize your error before it is too late."

"That seems unlikely. However, I shall not dispute your beliefs. If there is nothing else, Commissioner, I would prefer to meditate before my shift."

"Indeed, you have a lot to process. I shall take my leave of you now," he paused in the doorway, glancing back. "Spock. You might not feel my presence, but I will be watching."

Spock bowed his head.

"I have no means of stopping you," he said quietly, more to himself, than to Sudak.

The elder Vulcan nodded, acknowledging his words, and left.


	13. Tame the Light

_The first rays of sunlight were yet to touch over the ancient sands, when he heard someone enter the room. He jumped in his bed, startled out of some colorful vision. He sat bolt upright, his heart hammering in his side._

" _Wha—"_

" _Shh."_

 _A young Vulcan male, no older than eighteen, came gliding towards his bed and knelt beside it, reaching to grasp his shoulders._

" _Sybok?" Spock whispered, blinking in bewilderment._

" _Yes, little brother," the young Vulcan smiled at him. His hands slid up to cup Spock's face. "Do not be disturbed. I have come to say goodbye."_

" _Why?" Spock asked, reaching tentatively to clasp his brother's arm. His hand was too small to form more than half a circle around his wrist, but Sybok's smile grew wider at the gesture, even as his eyes turned sad._

" _I cannot stay here. They will never leave me be."_

" _Are you leaving because of my mother?" Spock's eyes, big as they seemed on a child's face, grew even bigger with alarm and concern._

" _No, Spock," Sybok took the little hands in his and squeezed gently. "Your mother is wonderful. She would probably understand. Father, though..." he looked away, his lips tensing for a moment. "If we lived alone, on some obscure planet, he might have accepted what I am. But on Vulcan... On Vulcan, it's impossible. Their grip on him is too tight."_

 _He let go of Spock's hands and straightened up to pace the room in agitation._

" _I love him, though. Despite all the things that he says, I love him. I know it's not truly him speaking. It's them."_

 _Spock didn't know who 'them' were, but he doubted sincerely that anyone could make his father say what he didn't want to. Sarek was not the one easily intimidated, if that were at all possible. But Spock had also learnt, after witnessing numerous impassioned arguments between his father and brother, that Sybok would maintain his version of reality, regardless of any kind of logic thrown at him. Looking up from his low bed, he watched Sybok, despite the discomfort it brought to his neck muscles. The elder Vulcan was obviously in distress, and Spock searched instinctively for some way to help him. He reached for one piece of wisdom that had been explained to him in abundance._

" _You cannot say you love him," he ventured. "It is wrong."_

 _Sybok spun at him, dropping to his knees so abruptly that Spock jerked back._

" _Who told you that?" Sybok demanded, his eyes inflamed with fury. "Who told you that to love is wrong?"_

" _We must master our emotions," Spock offered by means of explanation, repeating his lesson like a star pupil. "We must analyze them and redirect to some constructive activity."_

 _Sybok threw back his head and laughed heartily, albeit quietly. The motto of the Vulcan society, carefully articulated by this five-year-old, sounded like a mockery to his ears._

" _Forgive me, little brother," Sybok said, seeing profound alarm and confusion in the child's eyes. "I've been away too long. I did not realize they would have started on you already. At least, I had my childhood to myself. But you're half-human, father probably thinks that it's never too early in your case."_

 _Spock didn't understand what his brother was talking about, but he sensed the bitterness in his words and knew Sybok was hurting. It disturbed him, but he didn't know what to do._

 _Sybok grabbed his shoulders and lifted him up so that their eyes were on a level._

" _It is not wrong to love, Spock. No matter what they tell you, remember this. It is not wrong to love. Don't let them kill that in you," he lowered the boy back to the bed and reached to touch his temple. "It's all here, I can see it so clearly," he whispered. "From the moment you were born, I felt it. You are so full of love, my sweet little brother. Your mind is so full of it, it's almost shining through. Oh, I can see your future, Spock," his features creased in revulsion. "They will take it from you, all of it, bit by bit, and they will throw it away. They fear it, so they hide it, fight it, destroy it. They will not tolerate someone as loving as you in their midst. They will shame you and discipline you and ridicule, until you're afraid, too. Until you are one of them. Oh, Spock..." he pulled away, fighting his pain. "If only I could take you with me, take that part of you with me, save it..."_

 _Spock listened, without understanding, but more and more aware with each word that Sybok was talking about something so terrible that it frightened his brother like nothing else. Spock looked at that proud tall figure, distorted and torn with agony, and felt his eyes watering. He sensed, even though he could not comprehend. Instinctively, without a conscious thought, he leaned forward and reached for Sybok's face._

 _He had never had much success with the mind disciplines that Sarek had been trying to teach him. Had he thought about it, he would have realized that he would be unable to establish contact. Had he thought about it, he would have remembered that he shouldn't have attempted any such thing without supervision._

 _But he hadn't thought._

 _He pressed his fingers to the only meld point he was able to reach and sent forward, with all his might, everything that Sybok had invoked in him. The elder Vulcan jerked back in surprise, reflexively starting to break the uninvited contact. But at the last moment, he didn't. He pulled closer and opened his mind, swaying under the bright, brutal, unrestrained message that Spock was sending. Reveling in raw, savage emotions, untamed, but tender, languid, true, Sybok reached out with his own mind and increased the pull._

 _Yes, that felt so good, so incredibly good. Every time he touched Spock's mind, it felt like an exquisite entrée. Never could he partake too much, always wary of those watching, always feeling like a sinner. But this—this was the feast. Freely given. So tempting. Delicious. It was too much to resist._

 _Spock's body tensed in his arms, but Sybok was too far gone to pay attention. Sensing the weakening of the other mind, he increased the pull even more, unable to stop, wishing to draw all of it into himself. He could feel Spock's feeble, ignorant and erratic attempts to break free, but his untrained child's mind was no match for Sybok's fully developed mental abilities. He could feel Spock's hand, held captive tightly by that time, trying to weasel out of his grip, and he clenched his fingers with crushing force in instinctive anger at the prospect of being stopped._

 _Unsatisfied with what he could still elicit from afar, Sybok reversed the thrust and slid along the link, ramming hard into the fragile, delicate pool of light, which was his brother's mind. There was something infinitely exciting in the contrast between Spock's sweet, but utterly confused consciousness, struggling to overcome the ensuing turmoil, and his own well-organized mental forces, ready to obey his every command. Stifling weak protests Spock could barely formulate, Sybok began to zealously hunt down every glowing fiber, every stray of shining blaze, scattered and whirling around aimlessly, lost and panicked._

 _The small body Sybok was holding in a mortal lock began to shake, then was seized by violent convulsions, but he didn't stop. He couldn't._

Just a little bit more, my little brother. Just a little bit more. You're going to be fine, I won't hurt you. Just a little...

 _He was pushed away roughly, the contact severed ruthlessly, sending him reeling. Hitting his head on the floor hard, Sybok looked up, angry at being interrupted, only to meet openly furious gaze of his father. Obviously, Sarek didn't feel the need to master that particular emotion at the time._

" _Spock, are you hurt?"_

 _Spock couldn't answer him. He was lying flat on his back, wondering why the ceiling was spiraling down and still never fell. His head was burning as if he had put it into his mother's oven. In the world where he had suddenly found himself, there were no words. He could not understand what Sarek was saying, only knew that he was angry. His ability to sense emotions was all at once heightened, while his ability to formulate a coherent thought seemed to have faded to oblivion._

" _Spock. Can you answer me?"_

 _Spock's eyes traveled to one side to meet his father's. Reacting to the tone of his voice, rather than to his words, Spock tried to tell him that he was alright. But his lips and tongue had no inclination to obey him. And even if they did, he would have no means of knowing how to use them._

 _And yet there was no pain._

 _Sarek knelt at his side and observed him carefully._

" _There is no time to summon a healer."_

 _Then a seemingly cool hand came to rest on Spock's forehead, and he closed his eyes, leaning into the gentle, ultimately careful touch. Peace was flowing through this hand, the welcoming coolness and order. The mental touch was soothing, mellowing, unbearably tender, extinguishing the wild flames that threatened to burn his mind out. Never during their lessons had Sarek been this generous with him, and Spock felt an uncontrollable surge of longing. He wished the contact would never end. But just as his mind tried to tentatively reach out, enforced by smashing gratitude he was experiencing, the link was broken. Sarek removed his hand, a bit abruptly, almost with a flinch, and stared in his youngest son's eyes fixedly._

" _Spock."_

" _Yes, father," Spock heard himself saying. His own voice made him realize that the only world he had known was his to command again._

 _Seemingly satisfied with his ability to respond, Sarek straightened up and turned to face Sybok._

" _Is he all right?" Sybok asked, peering at Spock with genuine concern._

" _Your actions seem to have left no lasting damage."_

" _My actions?" Sybok repeated incredulously. "He initiated it!"_

" _I have been training Spock for a full year and a half now, Sybok. He is incapable of initiating a mind link."_

" _Maybe he didn't want to initiate a link with_ you _," Sybok snapped. "But he did it with me."_

" _Spock, is this true? You were the one who initiated the link?"_

 _Aware of his father's demanding scrutiny, Spock sat up on his bed, trying to assume a formal stance. His head was still spinning slightly, and he shivered in the cooler air. But his voice was even and controlled. He knew he was the guilty party, and, after what Sarek had just done for him, he was determined to show his father his acceptance of responsibility._

" _Yes, father."_

" _Why did you do it?"_

 _Spock thought about that. The possibility of lying had not occurred to him as a fact, but it was not easy to grasp what had prompted him to action. He knew Sarek would not appreciate excessive emotionalism, and he tried to answer as honestly and reasonably as he could._

" _I wanted to... give my brother what he wanted. He... he needed me."_

 _Sarek turned back to Sybok._

" _Why did you not break the contact? You are a trained telepath, you are of age. It was your responsibility to protect your brother, not to exploit him."_

" _I did not exploit him! I love him!"_

" _He was almost catatonic, when I broke your link. If I hadn't intervened, Spock would have died. In your unrestrained craving for emotion, you have almost killed your brother."_

" _I would never have hurt Spock!"_

" _I saw what happened in his mind, Sybok. You have lost control. You would not have stopped."_

" _You don't know what it's like! What he's like! All your life you've been hiding behind logic, and rules, and tradition. He's half-human, and it offends you. You scorn him too much to touch him. Look at him, father! He doesn't only need guidance, he needs love! You could never give that to him!"_

" _And you can?" Sarek's voice could have frozen a desert. "How, Sybok? By taking more than he could give you before he is even ready to understand what it is he is offering? By forcing him to satisfy your savage needs? By violating—"_

" _I did not violate him!"_

" _Spock has no mental defenses. He could not resist you, therefore he didn't. But that does not mean that what you did was not a violation. What you have almost done to your brother is the worst kind of crime a Vulcan could commit. Is that the love you are offering him?"_

" _Father."_

 _Both grown Vulcans turned simultaneously to look at the child standing boldly at his father's side. Spock was swaying and fighting hard not to show it. His lips were pursed into a straight stubborn line, and his expression, albeit vulnerable for the fear he could not as yet mask, was suddenly strikingly adult in its determination. He was perfectly aware that he was drawing the fire on himself, and his father's dissatisfaction was something he had a hard time dealing with, even when provoked by a far less gruesome transgression. But despite his fear, he could not stand the thought that someone else might suffer for his wrongdoing. He was determined not to let this happen, regardless of the consequences he would have to face._

" _Do not be... displeased with Sybok. It was all my fault. I have forgotten what you told me. I have initiated a mind link without asking for permission. I am to be punished, not him. I ask forgiveness."_

 _Sybok suddenly looked away. His shoulders slumped, as if he was struck. The stony expression on Sarek's face firmed even more, as he listened to the boy's plea._

" _Spock, we shall discuss it later. If you are sufficiently recovered, go downstairs and help your mother with breakfast. Do not talk to her about what happened. I shall inform her myself."_

 _Spock looked at him for another moment, as if considering repeating his request, but then bowed his head._

" _Yes, father."_

 _He walked out of the room, still slightly dizzy, but he was not going to let his father know about it. He was almost at the stairs, when he heard Sarek speak again._

" _I have long ceased to consider you my son, Sybok. But I have allowed you admittance to this household because Spock had the right to know his brother. From now on, these doors are closed to you. You will not approach Spock again, until he is capable of making his own decisions. Leave here now, Sybok, and never come back. I have nothing more to say to you."_

 _And it was then when he stumbled, as if hit by a shockwave. His foot twisted, and the physical pain had broken some barrier within him he didn't know he had. Pain had flooded his mind, stinging sharply, drawing boiling tears in his eyes, which he squeezed shut. He tried to channel it away the way he was taught to, but his control was slipping, and he couldn't muster nearly enough of it. Proving himself a weakling he had always thought he must be. He had always known that if only Sarek was capable of experiencing disappointment, Spock would have turned out the most profound he had ever had._

 _Seconds were slipping by, as his heart was trembling and squirming, rather than beating. If necessity was the mother of invention, could it be possible that desperation was in the same relation to acquiring the unreachable? Sitting at the top of the stairs, Spock did not think of his pain, of the fact that he had somehow lured his brother into a trap and betrayed him. He did not think that he would never see Sybok again. He could only concentrate on one thing._

 _He could not disobey his father's orders and he could not appear in front of his mother in his current state. And he didn't have much time._

 _Instinctively, more than consciously, he reached for control as if he had already possessed some. He imagined already having this, which he required so badly, and he seized this imaginary substance. He thought of how he would have used it, had it been the real thing, and performed the steps within his mind, as he was taught. He refused to feel hope or hopelessness, and simply implemented this would-be real instrument. He did so, without making any kind of his usual mistakes, because this wasn't real. Just a pretense._

 _And it worked._

 _Milliseconds before completing his task, he realized the imaginary control turned real. It was as if a mechanism suddenly appeared within his mind, like a cage with a control panel. Its walls were thin, but steely, and he could move them as he wished to encircle whatever disturbance he detected. He tried it tentatively on the pain in his sprained ankle, and it worked. It helped when he straightened up. It held back the tears, making them remain unshed. It composed his face into a calm impassive form, and it shielded his eyes with a veil, impenetrable to an outside observer. It drew his chin up and his shoulders down and back. It was holding him as he walked steadily downstairs and into the kitchen. It helped him check the impulse to run to his mother and bury his face in her lap, asking for consolation. He bowed his head politely as he said his morning greeting, and the control was still there._

 _He realized it would be gone sooner or later. He would have to fight back for it, but at the moment it didn't matter. What mattered was that it enabled him to live through this morning without incident. It carried him through the morning, and it gave him the ammunition for future combat._

 _And it prevented his heart from breaking into precisely one thousand pieces as he tried to assimilate the first 'never' in his life._

The next time Spock heard his brother's name was four months later. He came back from school an hour early, and overheard his mother talking to Francesca. The ever-smiling buxom-looking middle-aged woman was one of the few visitors from Earth to come to their house. She was the only human on the team of genetic engineers who assisted with Spock's birth, and retained a friendly interest to the child's progress, which Amanda appreciated. The thought that there were other couples whose love prevailed over interspecies differences appealed to her, and the prospect of more children with mixed origin was equally attractive, for they would have created a less lonely world for her son.

 _Spock was about to announce his presence when he heard Francesca saying his name. He paused, his curiosity piqued._

" _I must admit, Amanda, I don't know how you can stand it. Sarek is so strict with the boy."_

" _No more than any other Vulcan father, I assure you."_

" _I don't know. He's not allowed to smile, he's not allowed to have tantrums, he must always be logical... I mean, for heaven's sake, he's only five years old! This sort of discipline is inhumane."_

" _Spock is not human," Amanda said softly._

" _But he's your son, too, how can you stand it? Forgive me, Amanda, but Sarek is so harsh on him, never forgiving him the slightest slip. If we were on Earth, it wouldn't surprise me if they'd arrest him for child abuse."_

" _Do not judge my husband by human standards," Amanda's voice was stricken and cold. "Spock is his son and he is doing what is right for him. My son is a Vulcan, Francesca. He must learn the Vulcan way."_

" _I'm sorry," Francesca amended. "I didn't mean to judge. I'm really sorry, Amanda. Dammit, I'm a scientist, what the hell was I thinking?"_

" _It's all right," Amanda reassured her sympathetically. "It is difficult to watch. For me, too. But I know that Sarek has Spock's best interest in heart. If he appears excessively strict, it is because he cares too much. Sarek believes that Spock is more vulnerable to irrational impulses than any other Vulcan child, because of his human half. My husband has already lost one son, when he had defied the Vulcan way and embraced emotions. Sarek does not want to lose Spock as well."_

" _You told me before I came here not to ask Sarek about Sybok, why? What happened to him?"_

 _Amanda sighed._

" _He was brought before the tribunal of Shari Tcha'kla. He was declared V'tosh ka'tur, a Vulcan who rejects the teachings of Surak and defies logic. He has been banished from Vulcan. He can never come back."_

" _That sounds horrible. What has he done? I can't believe he's committed any crimes. He seemed to be a bright young Vulcan, so unlike the others."_

" _That is exactly his problem—that he is so unlike the others. His crime was wanting others to join him in his aberration. He has been warned. He chose not to listen."_

" _You sound like you approve of it. I can't believe that Vulcans would persecute someone just for not agreeing with the majority. Those are the people who invented IDIC!"_

" _You do not understand. The Vulcan way is in many respects better than ours. And they do embrace IDIC, but it doesn't mean that they are willing to let anyone jeopardize their way of life. There were other Vulcans, before Sybok, who had tried to embrace emotions. They have all failed. All of them, Fran. If Sybok was merely an emotional Vulcan, they would not have banished him. But he tried to coerce others into joining his belief. Some of them he persuaded. Some—tried to force. That is a crime by our standards, too."_

" _What is that Shari Tcha'kla that you mentioned? I've never heard of it and I'm a resident expert on Vulcans."_

" _I'm not surprised, there are very few who did. It's not a secret order, but they obviously don't advertise it. Shari Tcha'kla is a sort of a council of wise and a law enforcement body, but the only law they guard is the prevalence of logic over emotions. Shari Tcha'kla was created by Surak or shortly after him; the legends differ on that one. Their main purpose is to defend the Vulcan way from internal threats, from rotting from within, as T'Pau once put it. They are Vulcan's collective conscience, in a way."_

" _They are a huge organization, then?"_

" _Oh, no-no, there are only thirty members."_

" _But how can thirty Vulcans watch over the whole planet?"_

" _They do not. They concentrate on the Twelve Families only, twelve most ancient and distinguished Vulcan clans, the basis of our civilization. As long as the members of those twelve families are true to the Vulcan way, the planet is safe."_

" _And your family is one of the Twelve?"_

" _Obviously," Amanda's voice was both amused and ironic. "Sarek is the direct descendant of Surak. And so are Sarek's sons."_

" _So tell me," Francesca was clearly trying to lighten the mood. "How does a common girl from Chicago get to marry a Vulcan royalty?"_

 _Amanda laughed._

" _Just lucky I guess. Meaning me, of course. As for Sarek, I'd say that the random variation of chance seemed to have acted in his favor."_

The conversation made little sense to Spock then, but there was one thing that he realized very clearly. Sybok would never be allowed to return to Vulcan, and it was his, Spock's, fault.

As the years went by, he had reevaluated some of the events, but the feeling of guilt remained. He could not forget that he was the one who initiated the link. He exposed Sybok to the unrestrained mixture of Vulcan and human emotions. He wanted to help his brother, but ended up destroying him. The love that, as Sybok had claimed, was shining through him turned out to be a formidable instrument of annihilation. A deadly one, at that.

Sarek was mildly surprised by the newfound effort that Spock had put into mastering control disciplines from that moment on. He never asked for reasons for such a change, and Spock was disinclined to tell him. But he had vowed that he would never again allow himself to feel love freely, as he used to. He would never allow his passion to destroy anyone else.

Years of determined discipline and ever-tightening control had brought him some measure of relief. After the pains of his childhood, he had joined Starfleet and maintained even, steady relationships with his classmates and shipmates. He had occasionally allowed himself to get attracted to someone and bring that attraction to a logical conclusion, but there had always been a defined limit of how far he was willing to allow the relationship to go. Leila could not understand this, as couldn't the others. He got used to it. He had become so proficient in reinforcing his armor that he had almost begun to believe he was now invincible.

And then, he met Jim.

The ironic thing was that he had never sensed the trouble coming. He used all of his years-proved arsenal against Jim, almost automatically, and he never suspected he wasn't successful. Up to this day, he was certain that their relationship was under total control. It took Sudak to open his eyes, to make him realize how close he had come to giving in to the dangerous feelings that were boiling inside him. The feelings that once unleashed would most certainly destroy them both.

How could he have let this happen?

He looked back at the five-year mission and saw nothing but failure on his part. Failure and inability to see it. He should have seen it when he drew a reprimand for the incident in the Tholian space. It should have been clear to him that he was losing it, when even McCoy, Jim's closest and most devoted friend, urged him to take the ship away. It should have been clear to him, when he drew yet another reprimand, for having beamed after his Captain to Gideon in defiance of the Non-Interference Directive and Starfleet standing orders. When he knocked his Captain out with a nerve pinch to take his place in the Orion death chamber. Kirk was livid afterwards, and they didn't speak with each other for a week. There were numerous other incidents, equally, if not more, eloquent. Yet he had never seen it.

He had been blind.

He realized suddenly that he had been standing motionless, staring at the closed door, for an inordinate number of minutes. He felt numb. He was cold. It was the cold that had eventually brought him out of his torpor. He was shivering in his overheated quarters. Awkwardly, he walked towards the firepot to place it on the floor, but he had no feeling in his limbs as he ordered his hands to take the vessel. The warm ceramic slipped out of his frozen fingers and smashed on the deck with a soft dampened sound. The fire went out.

Spock kneeled clumsily, trying to collect the fragments. His fingers simply did not want to obey the commands his brain was issuing. Vaguely, he heard the door open and close behind him. He needed not turn to know who it was.

"Spock?" Jim called a bit uncertainly. "What happened here?"

Spock couldn't answer, stubbornly continuing to gather the shards.

"What the devil are you doing?" the voice sounded much closer. In a moment, he felt Jim kneeling at his side. "Spock. Stop it. Can't you see you're cutting your hands?"

He looked over his crooked palms, seeing strays of green erupting on the pale skin. His hands quivered and he dropped the few pieces he had gathered.

Somebody sighed next to him, and then his wrists were caught in a tight grip, his hands being moved gently but firmly away from the sharp edges. He wanted nothing better than to submit to this strong will, giving up the control. He knew he couldn't do it. He must not.

 _Leave me._

He wanted to say it. He didn't. He wanted to jerk his hands free, and he couldn't. That he tried though, at least. The grip became tighter.

"No," Jim said. "I will not go. I've stayed away as long as I could. Please don't do this to me. To yourself."

He did jerk his hands free then and stood up abruptly, facing away from the kneeling human.

It was pointless to ask what Jim was even doing here. It was pointless to remind him that he was acting very un-like a starship captain. It was pointless because Jim did not come here tonight as captain. He did not even come as a friend, and they both knew it. The further explanation and the blame lied with Spock alone. Both were something he was disinclined to share.

"Spock, listen to me very carefully." Sensing Spock's unease with the disposition, Kirk stood up as well. "I don't know what it is you're trying to protect me from, but there's no need for you to do this. I make my own choices."

With his back still on the human, Spock closed his eyes briefly and swallowed, before speaking. He had a hypothesis to test. One last test.

"Why are you here, Jim?"

The answer came without missing a beat. It was simple, even matter-of-fact. It was the one he had expected and feared.

"Because you need me."

Spock nearly laughed at the bitter irony. Since when had he been longing for his theories to be disproved? Wasn't he, as a scientist, supposed to hope for the opposite effect? Why was he feeling so miserable when proven right?

' _You have seduced an innocent human into a relationship he knows nothing about.'_

Indeed. Truer words had never been said. Jim knew nothing about _why_ he had to be here, only that he had to. He did not understand, but he gave the correct answer. The only correct answer. He could not explain, but he did what he had to do—he came here. The only action he could have taken. The only action that was right.

Jim no longer had a choice.

Spock braced himself mentally, before turning to face him. This would not be easy.

"Captain, I apologize for you witnessing me in such a state. I assure you that this is a unique occurrence, which will not happen again. I was indeed... disquieted, but I have discovered the reason and will eliminate it. You need not concern yourself. This is a private matter. Your presence is not required. It is, if anything, disturbing me. And in view of your early shift, I suggest you return to your quarters."

There was a distinct pause, a rather menacing silence, while they were staring at each other.

Jim was the first to break it, in a quiet, even tone.

"Spock, is there anything at all I can do?"

Spock winced, as if struck. He couldn't control it. He was expecting anger, hurt, blame—anything, anything at all, but this infinite care. The mirrored anguish and ultimate tenderness he saw in Jim's eyes had swept away his hastily engaged defenses in an instant. He could never tell how he managed not to drop his gaze or not to allow it to reveal too much. He summoned every bit of integrity he had left and spoke levelly, not breaking eye contact.

"I am fine, Jim."

Kirk frowned. He was the one to break position, making a couple of steps in no apparent direction.

"They say there's a first time for everything," he mused quietly, crossing his arms over his chest and looking at Spock darkly. "But I would really like to know what was it that made you lie to me just now for the first time."

"That is not entirely accurate."

"You want to argue semantics, Spock? Granted, you deceived me once by omission. And you pulled my leg sometimes in league with McCoy. But you have never lied to me outright like that. Why, Spock? What are you not telling me?"

He waited, but Spock remained silent. Kirk sighed.

"Someday?"

There was such boundless desperation in his voice that Spock couldn't bear it. He nodded, giving a promise he had no intention of keeping.

"Someday."

Kirk smiled sadly and shook his head.

"And a second lie to follow the first. You're not very good at it, you know."

He wasn't expecting an answer, and wasn't surprised to get none. Glancing briefly at the broken firepot, he turned to leave.

"Jim."

He paused, without turning back.

"You are my Captain."

An explanation. An apology. An acknowledgement. A shove-away. A promise. A question.

A plea.

To all of that, packed in four short words, he only had one answer. One word, signifying both reassurance and regret, and something, for which he didn't have a name.

"Yes."

Spock remained standing motionless for a long time after the door had closed.


	14. Shoot to Kill

"Commander, I think you should see this."

Putting his coffee mug on the desk, Giotto glanced up from the Security status report.

"What have you got there, Mr. Hu?"

The Lieutenant shrugged uncertainly, as always mildly uncomfortable in the Security Chief's office.

"We've been examining the debris of that _Nailers'_ ship and found this recorder," he showed the slightly wrinkled metallic case, blackened by high temperature. "It was attached to the black box. The Science team says it's either a copy of the ship's logs or a personal recorder of the captain. I believe the latter, sir."

"Why do you say that?" Giotto inquired, accepting the device from Hu and examining it curiously.

"Well, sir, we've tried to make it replay the data," the Lieutenant shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Giotto almost sighed at this. The boy was young. "It's pretty garbled, very hard to make out anything. But we did manage to get a name of an officer currently aboard the _Enterprise_."

The Security Chief abandoned his study and looked up at Hu sharply. His tone remained quiet and even, but the Lieutenant stiffened instinctively.

"Who?"

Hu stiffened even more and then answered.

For a while, there had been silence. Slowly, Giotto came to his feet. He frowned, but obviously wasn't taken off guard. He glanced at the chronometer. Four forty-five.

"Wake the senior staff," he said levelly. "Not everyone, just the Captain, Commander Spock, Mr. Scott and Doctor McCoy. Assemble them in Briefing Room 2. Then try to locate him and detain."

"Understood, sir."

Hu turned to go, but Giotto stopped him.

"Lieutenant. Do it quietly."

"Yes, sir."

Giotto stared at the damaged recorder fixedly, as if expecting it to spring from the desk and attack. The Security Chief had a very disquieting feeling building a nest in his stomach. Success in his job depended for the most part on the ability to evaluate people, and he had been exceptionally good at it. For the first time in years, a person surprised him into an error in judgment. Giotto did not appreciate it the tiniest bit. Did this mean that he was getting too old to perform his duties adequately?

The comm whistle interrupted his decisively disturbing train of thought.

"Giotto."

"The senior staff will meet you in Briefing Room 2 in five minutes, sir."

"Good. Let me know the moment you apprehend him."

"Aye, sir."

Giotto picked up the recorder and headed for the turbolift. When one woke their commanding officer at five in the morning, it was not a good idea to make them wait.

"What's this all about?" Kirk asked, frowning, the moment Giotto entered. "We have a staff meeting scheduled for 0700, couldn't it wait till then?"

He was standing at the head of a long rectangular table, pouring steaming coffee into a cup. Spock and Scott were sitting at the other end quietly. The Engineer seemed mildly ruffled, though what was producing this impression remained unknown. Spock's appearance did not deviate from the usual in the slightest. McCoy was absent.

"I'm sorry, sir," Giotto replied evenly. "This couldn't wait."

"And what exactly is this 'this'?" Kirk took a sip of his coffee, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"I'd prefer to wait for Doctor McCoy to arrive in order not to repeat myself," Giotto said.

"Well, why don't ye wake him up ten minutes early next time?" Scott grunted.

"Good idea," Kirk nodded grimly, pulling up a chair.

The doors hissed open, and McCoy strode in, looking distinctly disheveled. His tunic was slightly wrinkled and his hair was tousled, as if combed with a hand, not a comb.

"Why are we meeting in this ungodly hour?" he asked by means of greeting. "Is the ship on fire?"

"We're about to find out," Kirk looked at Giotto, while McCoy was seating himself, eyeing the coffee pot longingly. "Commander?"

"Captain, while examining the debris of the vessel, which the _Enterprise_ destroyed, we have found a recorder," Giotto lifted up the device for them to see, then placed it in the middle of the table. "We believe it was the captain's personal recorder. The records are distorted, but it is possible to make out one name."

"What name is that?" Kirk asked.

"It's the name of an _Enterprise_ officer. The one who was suspected in sabotaging the engines."

The meaningful silence was interrupted rather unceremoniously by Scott.

"Lad, ye're waiting for a special invitation, or something? Whose bloody name—?"

"Ensign Pavel Chekov."

"Chekov?" McCoy, who was taking a sip of coffee, choked. "Are you out of your mind? Why would Chekov sabotage the engines?"

"Bones," Kirk's tone was warning. "Are you certain it's his name, Commander?"

Instead of answering, Giotto activated the playback.

"—ished you... involved with me... Pasha, you're... must stick to Earth and... hear me, Chekov? You must do it for me... we both have been... believed you betrayed us, but I know now I was wrong... Chekov, contact..."

The sound of static and jumbled noises filled the room, and Giotto turned the recorder off.

"That's all there is."

"I can't believe it," McCoy muttered, staring at the device incredulously. "Chekov, of all people? Chekov? That's ridiculous."

"We seem to have some proof that it is not," Kirk objected grimly.

"This might be a coincidence," Spock ventured thoughtfully. "We must try to get more data before coming to conclusions."

"Agreed," Kirk said. "Meanwhile I want to talk to him."

"He's being located and detained by my people, Captain. In fact, we should have heard from them by now."

As if on cue, the intercom whistled.

"Hu to Giotto."

"Giotto here, Lieutenant. Have you located Ensign Chekov?"

"No, sir. He's not in his quarters. I've organized several search parties, but so far—"

Giotto almost grinded his teeth at such unbelievable carelessness.

"Activate the internal sensors, Mr. Hu."

"We tried that, sir. They are offline."

"What?" Kirk turned to Spock, who was reaching for the computer terminal already.

"Confirmed, Captain," he announced in a moment, looking mildly perplexed. "The whole internal sensor grid is offline, apparently some malfunction. I shall need to get to the Bridge to determine the cause."

"Lieutenant Hu, this is the Captain," Kirk said into the comm. "We're working on the sensors, meanwhile make it a thorough search."

"Aye, sir. Hu out."

"Jim, you don't really think Chekov had anything to do with it?" McCoy asked in alarm. "I mean, you know him. He couldn't possibly be involved with these people."

Kirk looked at him wearily. "It's kind of difficult to deny after what we've just heard."

"What was it he called Chekov?" McCoy frowned deeper. "Pasha? What's that?"

"We've run that through the language bank," Giotto broke in. "It's short for Pavel."

"Haven't you ever heard Uhura call him that?" Kirk wondered absently.

"No. How on earth do they make Pasha out of Pavel?"

"Same way you make Jim out of James," Kirk said. "Or Dick out of Richard. It doesn't matter, Bones. We all heard what it said. If anything, it proves that they were on very friendly terms."

Spock, who was busy, examining the recorder, glanced up at these words.

"Captain, there is a large amount of data stored in here. It should be possible to extract and restore at least parts of it. The information might be crucial in defining the nature of Ensign Chekov's involvement."

"I agree," Kirk nodded. "Is there anyone in your department who can do this?"

Spock's eyebrow rose slightly.

"Yes, Captain. Me. I shall give it top priority."

"No," Kirk objected calmly. Three heads snapped to him in surprise, while Spock continued to look at him patiently. "You won't have the time."

Spock maintained eye contact for several more seconds, before finally laying the recorder down.

"Lieutenant Aoula is sufficiently qualified," he offered blandly.

Kirk nodded curtly. "Give it to her."

Aware of their questioning gazes, the Captain stood up and made a couple of steps across the room. He turned to face his officers, looking them over in turn carefully.

"Since we're all here, there's no point in waiting till oh-seven hundred. I have been contacted by Starfleet Command late last night. Intelligence reports that the _Nailers'_ ships have been spotted in Beluska sector."

"Beluska?" Scott repeated surprised. "That's about a dozen planets in some, what, five parsecs from here?"

"Approximately seven," Spock corrected.

"That's the one," Kirk nodded. He looked at Spock squarely. "Commander, I want you to prepare an orbital and on-the-ground tactical survey of all those worlds. I want you to give this task your full attention. Our orders are to engage the _Nailers_ in battle, wherever we might find them. We are to detain them. In case of any resistance, however insignificant, our orders are shoot to kill."

A gruesome silence took reign of the room for a moment, while they were contemplating the news. McCoy was the first one to break it.

"Shoot to kill?" he asked incredulously. "You can't be serious, Jim."

"These are our orders, Doctor," Kirk replied a bit snappishly. "I don't like it any more than you do."

"Really? I doubt it, because I don't like it pretty damn much! For heaven's sake!" his eyes flashed in anger. "Does Starfleet even remember its own purpose? We were supposed to be exploring the galaxy. Instead, we play diplomats, we serve as a cab for bored dignitaries, we're engaged in an occasional act of espionage, and now—now they're asking us to act as executioners! Well, that's just one step too far, Captain! I suggest you call them back and tell them to dispatch a police vessel or some troopers!"

Kirk shook his head. He had anticipated this reaction, but not its vehemence.

"Captain," Spock spoke quietly, looking at his steepled fingers. "I am forced to agree with Doctor McCoy. Should we proceed with this plan, the number of casualties aboard the _Enterprise_ is not encouraging. We might lose up to forty percent of our personnel. We were not designed to be a battleship. We were not designed to apprehend terrorists. Contacting Starfleet Command and pointing out these facts might be a wise course of action."

"What makes you think I haven't pointed them out?" Kirk retorted irritably. "Beluska is a long way from Earth, and we're here already. Mr. Scott, I need the ship to be ready for combat."

"Aye, Captain," the Scotsman nodded solemnly.

"You don't seem to be disturbed by this," McCoy noted grumpily. "Doesn't it bother you that we're doing their dirty work for them? And this time it's a very dirty work."

"Aye, it does," Scott shrugged, staring at his hands lying on the table. "But they are the ones giving orders. They are not exactly asking us to hunt down the innocent, Doctor."

"I'm sorry, Bones, but you'll have to—"

"Prepare Sick Bay for casualties we're about to get stuck with," McCoy finished for him, getting to his feet. "Aye, aye, Captain, sir. But if you need someone to re-invent the gas chamber, don't come to me, because that's where I'll draw the line."

"Thanks for the warning, Doctor. I'll bear that in mind," Kirk intoned acidly and turned to Giotto. "We'll need assault teams on the ready, Commander. For boarding parties or ground attack. I think your men could use a little freshening up."

"Never hurts," Giotto agreed. "I'll see to it immediately."

"Fine, let's get to work. The sooner we deal with this, the sooner we'll be on our way. Dismissed."

McCoy was the first one to storm out. Giotto and Scott followed him, looking grave, but considerably more calm. Spock rose up too, but paused. Kirk turned to him.

"Something?"

The Vulcan walked over to him, arms folded across his chest in a gesture of defense rather than concentration.

"Ensign Chekov," Spock said quietly. "I realize that so far the evidence has been condemning, but I urge you to take into account what we both know of him. I find it difficult to picture him as a _Nailer_."

"So do I," Kirk sighed, his face darkening. "But his going into hiding doesn't exactly play in his favor."

Spock frowned slightly.

"It is possible he has simply experienced extreme anxiety and reacted on instinct. He _is_ very young."

"I know, Spock, but I can't give extra credit for that," Kirk moved towards the doors, but Spock blocked his way.

"Captain, what I am trying to tell you is that, while we are engaged in search of Ensign Chekov, the real saboteur has his hands free to perform more damaging acts."

Kirk's lips tensed, as he put his hands on his hips, his whole posture screaming defiance.

"What do you suggest we do, Commander? Abandon the search because of a personal belief? I didn't know it was an option."

"Captain—"

"Spock, I really need that tactical analysis," Kirk cut him off firmly. "Even for someone with your abilities, it's a hell of a lot of work to do, and we don't have that much time, so I suggest you get started. I'll worry about Chekov."

Spock inclined his head, his face completely devoid of any expression.

"Yes, sir."

"You're lucky you're not in my chair, Spock," Kirk muttered after the doors closed behind the Vulcan. "I'd give a lot not to be facing this decision."

He stood in the empty room for several more seconds, then squared his shoulders decisively and headed for the Bridge.

 

 

\--

 

Sulu sat in the center seat numb. By nature, he was not the one easily impressed or scared, but, at the moment, he felt both. Plus shaken. Plus totally shocked.

What had begun as a routine morning shift turned out to be a surreal nightmare. Captain Kirk appeared on the Bridge ten minutes late, and Spock not at all, which was extraordinary. The Captain shot orders in a brisk, no-nonsense manner, then left Sulu in command and headed for his study.

And that was when Sulu felt completely alone and lost, sitting in the center seat. He would have given a year's pay to be able to exchange a couple of words with Uhura, but she wasn't there. She was working in her lab on a new code. Sulu wondered vaguely what her reaction to the news about Chekov was.

He knew for certain he was at a loss of what to think. Over the past three years he had come to consider the Ensign one of his best friends. Yet, there were a lot of things Sulu didn't know about him. Despite his youth and certain innocence, Chekov was hardly an open type. With his ever-loud boasts about Russian inventions and his self-expression that scarcely needed a boost, it was easy to consider him an open book. This, however, was as far from the truth, as possible. If anything, Chekov reminded Sulu of a puppy, who had spent his early days out in the street and was later picked up by some kind stranger. The puppy grew up into a cheerful and grateful young dog, who could never, in spite of all following kindness, forget the lessons the street had taught him. He might be loyal to his master, but he would never trust him not to kick him. Like that dog, Chekov, too, had internal safeguards which he didn't lower for anyone.

And yet, if anything, Chekov was loyal. Even now, having heard of the evidence, Sulu would have pledged his life upon it. He remembered Chekov, in tremendous pain, yelling loudly, tortured by the Klingons, rolling on the ground in agony. Yet, when he was able to speak again, he had found the Captain's eyes and said loud and clear, 'Don't do it, sir. Don't agree to their terms. I'd rather they killed me.' They very nearly did. No, Sulu thought decisively. Maybe Chekov wasn't the easiest person to read, but he would never have betrayed his ship, of that Sulu was certain. He sighed again, feeling realistically unwell.

The turbolift doors opened to reveal Spock coming onto the Bridge. Sulu half-rose from his chair, but the First Officer waved him back, shaking his head in a mute 'As you were' command, and proceeded to his station. Sulu stole a look at him, trying to decide whether or not he could dare ask Spock for any details. Or news. But the Vulcan seemed completely engrossed in some computations he was running on his station, and Sulu remained seated. Spock had never been fond of 'irrelevant questions' anyway.

Time was running slow, as he supervised the small course corrections and signed a couple of reports. He felt on edge, his thoughts kept returning to the missing Navigator. Every time Sulu's gaze fell upon Chekov's station, he felt a pang of anger. Why the hell didn't the idiot come to him, Sulu, when he realized he was in trouble? Did he believe Sulu would automatically decide he was guilty? Stupid, arrogant, childish...

"Lieutenant?"

Sulu winced, as a hand came to rest on his left arm. He turned to see Giotto standing at his chair.

"Is there anything I can help you with, sir?"

This was pure courtesy. Technically, Giotto's rank was higher than his own, but Sulu was a Bridge officer, which made him supersede the Commander in the chain of command. Sulu, however, felt nothing wrong with a healthy show of respect.

"I want to ask you some questions, Lieutenant," the Security Chief said firmly, regarding him as if he were a target to be hit. "Can you arrange for a relief?"

"Questions? About what?"

"About Ensign Chekov, of course. We still are unable to locate him, and, according to my observations, you might possess certain intimate information which might help us."

Sulu felt a streak of cold sweat running down his spine. The last thing he wanted to do was answering Security questions without knowing what was going on. If Chekov was innocent, then anything Sulu said might harm him.

"I... am on duty until the Captain relieves me," he said the first thing that came to mind.

"Oh, I'm certain that something can be arranged," Giotto didn't take the rebuff at face value. "Our little talk wouldn't take long. I intend to limit my questions to the topics of the Ensign's family history, his liaisons, of which you are aware, his political views and—"

"I don't know his political views," Sulu interrupted him, feeling both angry and nervous. "What does it matter? He didn't do it, whatever you think he's done."

Giotto's eyes narrowed.

"And how would you know that? Perhaps we should discuss _your_ political views instead, Lieutenant?"

"Some other time," a voice sounded to Sulu's right, making him jump.

Spock was standing at his other side, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze boring steadily into the Security Chief.

"Mr. Spock," Giotto began, "I would appreciate if you would not interfere with the investigation."

Spock's eyebrow rose up.

"Interfere, Commander? I am merely pointing out that Mr. Sulu is otherwise occupied. In addition to having the conn, I have also asked for his assistance in the preparation of the tactical survey."

Sulu almost choked at this news and looked up at Spock sharply, but the Vulcan's impassive stare was quite unreadable. However, as any good command officer, the Helmsman was quick at picking up the cues. He composed his face carefully not to reveal his surprise.

"You asked for his assistance?" Giotto repeated in clear disbelief.

"Indeed. Mr. Sulu's experience in employing different battle strategies will prove quite useful for this task, wouldn't you agree?"

"The investigation must come first."

"I do not concur," Spock objected. "The mission is more important."

"Maybe we should take this up with the Captain," Giotto challenged.

Spock didn't answer, only tilted his head slightly and lifted an eyebrow again. Translated into human, his expression read quite clearly, 'Be my guest.'

Giotto caved, realizing this was a challenge he was unlikely to win. He fixed Sulu with a heavy stare.

"Whenever your duties allow, Lieutenant."

"Of course, sir," Sulu agreed readily.

With a final glance at Spock, Giotto headed for the turbolift.

Sulu couldn't prevent a sigh of relief. He looked at the First Officer gratefully, but, before he could speak his mind, Spock handed him two data chips.

"Your assignment, Lieutenant. I expect your review in two hours. You will reach me in Science Lab 2. And Mr. Sulu," Spock lowered his voice. "If your tactical analysis proves anything less than invaluable..."

"I understand, Mr. Spock," Sulu said, and added quietly, "Thank you, sir."

Spock's veiled gaze held his for a moment, then the Vulcan nodded and left the Bridge.


	15. Suspiciouns and Suspects

"Stand clear!"

Uhura winced and flattened herself against the wall. A Security squad, falling in pairs, jogged past her, scrambling the air in their wake. She shook her head in exasperation. Those drills had been running on all day, but she couldn't get used to the new, more military feel of the ship. Security personnel on a starship rarely acted as special task force. Even knowing the nature and the consequent importance of their mission, Uhura couldn't help but shudder at every new sign of the preparation.

It would have been easier, she thought suddenly, if someone had declared war on them. It was a terrible occurrence to imagine, but, if that were the case, they wouldn't be feeling this much out of place on their own ship.

She keyed the door of her quarters, when a voice halted her.

"Lieutenant Uhura."

She shivered and turned back slowly. Sudak glided toward her, studying her face impassively. Uhura forced a smile.

"Commissioner."

He came to stand beside her in the doorway, and she had to fight an impulse to step back. But that might have been interpreted as an invitation, and she was far from having decided to make that leap yet. Still, she acknowledged reluctantly that her heart began to race, as the strange foreign scent reached her nostrils.

"Have you received my present?" he inquired calmly.

She looked up at him, searching his face. It was extremely difficult to correlate this expressionless demeanor with the double symbol of passion left in her quarters. But he was asking the question.

Her first instinct was to lie, to deny both the gift and the implication. But as her eyes were captured by the impenetrable dark ones, she had lost every inclination of being untruthful.

"Yes," she heard her own voice. "It was... beautiful."

He lifted his eyebrows slightly, as a passing crewmember gave them a curious look. Uhura blushed, but didn't budge.

"You are aware then that I have asked you a question," Sudak stated. "May I know your answer?"

She panicked. She wasn't ready for this. With the ship placed on constant battle ready alert, she hardly spared a thought for Sudak the whole shift. She didn't have the time to try and sort out her own feelings. He intrigued her and she was attracted to him. There was hardly any point in denying it now, as he stood a mere few inches away, and her head was spinning just at the realization that he was at least a head taller and probably five times stronger. She felt excited, and yet something kept holding her back.

"I cannot give you an answer at this time," she replied, carefully choosing her words. She didn't want to turn him down. "I require more time for considering it."

His eyebrows went up again, indicating his surprise.

"This is most illogical. I would not have approached you, had I been unsure of your desire for me," he said, making her blush furiously.

"It's not that simple," she muttered, deeply embarrassed. "Please, Commissioner, I really need more time to think about it. With everything that's going on, I just—I need some time."

He inclined his head slightly.

"As you wish. My offer will remain in effect. Please inform me when your period of contemplation will be over."

"Yes, I will do so," she stammered to his retreating back. He didn't stop to acknowledge her words.

With a sigh, she finally walked into her quarters, allowing the doors to shut. She pressed her hands to her burning face.

"Oh God, I'm in trouble," she groaned softly.

A muffled chuckle coming from the sleeping area made her jump.

"Sure you are. But I'd trade you."

That accent she'd recognize anywhere. Hardly believing her ears, Uhura walked around the partition, staring incredulously at the unasked visitor.

Sure enough, it was Pavel Chekov, but if he hadn't spoken to her, she might have had trouble recognizing him. His face was swollen, like a huge grape, and easily matching it in color, with shades varying from crimson to dark purple and yellowish green. His gold shirt was missing, and the black T-shirt he wore underneath was torn in several places. He was covered in dust all over, and he was sitting on her bed, she noted with dismay.

"God, what happened to you?" she blurted out, mesmerized by his appearance. "Where the hell have you been? The whole ship's looking for you. They say you're the one who sabotaged the engines."

He sneered wolfishly.

"Why don't you call Security then?"

She put her hands on her hips defiantly.

"Sick Bay is more like it. Damn it, Chekov. What's going on?"

"Someone's trying to kill me."

She gaped at him.

" _What_?"

"Listen," his eyes slid across the room, as if in search of something. "Have you got any food? I don't remember when the last time I've eaten was."

For a moment, she just stared at him, then walked over to her desk. She took a chocolate bar from a drawer, and threw it to him.

"Sit tight," she said, heading for her bathroom.

She sopped a face towel in warm water, took the tube with an antiseptic cream, and walked back, coming to sit on the bed beside him. The chocolate bar was almost gone. He looked hopefully at her desk, but she ignored him.

"Oi!" he cried out, as she pressed the towel to his face gently. "Be careful with that, will you?"

He looked incensed, but didn't make any attempt to pull away.

"What happened, Chekov?" Uhura asked, as she continued to cleanse his abused skin. "Who's trying to kill you?"

"I don't know," he muttered quietly, squirming under her care. "I've been working in cargo bay four, when someone depressurized it."

"What?"

"I knew it wasn't an accident," he continued, looking into her shocked face. "I saw someone moving behind those controls, just couldn't make out who it was. And then I lost consciousness."

"But—how did you survive?"

He snorted humorlessly, wincing in pain, as she touched his cut lip with the towel.

"They say we, Russians, are lucky. There was an open hatch behind me. I should have closed it before I began to work with the catalogue, but I—left it for later."

"You fell down," she guessed.

"I think so. I came to two decks below, still inside the tube."

"But, Pasha, that's a forty feet fall!" she looked horrified. "How could you possibly survive?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. But the vacuum might have softened the fall. I don't know, Ny, I'm not an engineer. Maybe I grabbed the railing as I went down, I don't remember. All I know is that I came around, dizzy and hurt, and tried to get out. I needed help."

"Yet you never made it."

"No," he shook his head, shivering slightly. "I heard the Keptin's address. I realized they were searching for me, they thought I was a _Nailer_."

She tensed at the reminder. At the moment she couldn't decide what to believe.

"They found a record in that captain's log or something," she said quietly. "Addressed to you."

He nodded. "Yeah, it figures. If Alex contacted Maryann, he might have tried to reach me as well."

"Alex?" she asked bewildered. "You really knew him?"

He shot a suffering look at her, then averted his eyes.

"He was a childhood friend. He was at the Academy with me, only three years further. Beats me what made him enter, he hated Starfleet. Probably thought it was the best way to know the enemy."

"But he was a _Nailer_. How could you—"

"He was a philosopher," Chekov said defiantly. "He believed we must know our roots before going into space. He joined the _Nailers_ when they were a pacifist movement. Maryann said he wanted out."

"Who's Maryann?"

Chekov sighed. "A mutual friend. She and Alex dated for seven years or something. She's now the Special Assistant to the Ambassador to the Misty Worlds."

And with great effort and many pauses, he told her everything. She listened, while tending to his injuries, but there was something she couldn't comprehend.

"Chekov, why are you hiding? Can't you tell the Captain all this?"

"You don't understand," he hissed, seizing her wrist and squeezing it tightly. "There's a _Nailers'_ operative aboard this ship. Someone has sabotaged the engines. Someone tried to kill me. Do you know why? Because it would leave them free of any suspicion. With Alex's recorder mentioning my name, I'm the prime suspect. If I were detained, they would have questioned me, using the truth serum and whatnot. It would have become clear that I'm telling the truth, that I'm not a _Nailer_. The search for the saboteur would have continued, the security precautions stayed in place."

"And if you died," she took over, empowered by sudden realization, "they would have thought that you were responsible, and the security measures would have been lifted. If you died, unable to prove your innocence, they would have been free to act."

He nodded grimly.

"The moment I am arrested, I'm doomed. Whoever the saboteur is, they can't allow me to be questioned. I don't know who the perpetrator is. The moment I am discovered, I'm safe nowhere. Not in Sick Bay, not in the brig. I don't want to die, Uhura."

"But we have to do something," she bit her lip in frustration. "You can't hide forever."

"I don't intend to," he assured her gravely. "I'm going to find that _Nailer_."

"What?" she stared at him blankly. "Chekov, that's absurd! Our whole Security team is looking—"

"For me," he cut her off. "Not for whoever's responsible. We're moving in for a fight, aren't we? Then, whoever it is, they must act now. If I were them, I'd stall us for as long as I could. I think that's what they'll do, too. And I'm going to catch them."

"This is crazy," she exclaimed empathically. "Do you realize how dangerous it is? They have already tried to kill you once. Wasn't it like enough for you?"

"I have to do it, Ny," he said stubbornly. "There is no other way—not for me, and not for the _Enterprise_."

She locked gazes with him for a long moment, then finally relented.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

He grinned in relief.

"I can't let you risk your life or career," he shook his head. "But if you get me some food and—" he looked down at himself, slightly hesitant, "—clothes?"

She smiled at him, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"Consider it done. I'll be back in ten minutes," she rose to her feet, but he caught her hand, looking worried.

"You can't go to my quarters—they must be under surveillance."

Her smile became indulgent.

"There is a number of ways I can get a hold of some men's clothing around here," she said. "Leave it to me."

He grinned back uncertainly, but then a sudden mischief flooded his eyes.

"So," he intoned flippantly. "You and Sudak, huh? I thought there was something going on between you two."

"Really?" she asked coolly, extracting her hand from his hold. "How very observant of you. You never told me how you got into my quarters, anyway."

"I have my ways." He stretched on the bed in a nonverbal challenge.

She wrinkled her nose at the sight.

"Do me a favor, take a shower," she said with mild disdain, faltered slightly by her sweet smile. "I'll have some fresh pants for you to wear by the time you'll be done with it, I promise."

He grinned, a bit sheepishly.

"As you command, Ma'am," he rolled off the bed. "Nyota. Thank you."

It looked for a moment, as if he was fighting to say more, but then gave up the idea. Her smile widened.

"Don't mention it."

 

 

\--

His head was aching. Blankly he looked at the diagnostic diagram glowing on the center panel, and shook his head resignedly, making another note on his padd. So far it didn't appear like there was anything at all wrong with either the primary or auxiliary power grid. Scott sighed and sank back into his chair, waiting for the cycle to end.

Ready for combat.

That was what they had always asked of him. 'Mr. Scott, the ship must be ready for combat.' Just like that. And he had always made her ready. Even when she was tired, and crippled, and hurt. It was a years-long relationship of action and counteraction. He made her ready—they made her unready. Like a capricious child, they asked him to mend the broken toy so that they would be able to break it yet again. He knew it was not a game. He was as proud as anyone when they had accomplished yet another impossible mission. But at certain times he felt as if he would have done well under the name Sisyphus.

But it wasn't the Captain's request that occupied his thoughts at the moment. He performed the check almost in autopilot mode. The events of more than a week ago, when he had discovered the foreign object in the matter flow, were still haunting him. The Captain, Commander Giotto, even Spock, they might all be satisfied with creating lists of suspects and conducting their investigations. They might even drag in something as ridiculous as Chekov having something to do with it. They were pursuing the logical course, Scott did not deny that. But after the morning briefing he realized with perfect clarity for the first time that none of them had seen it. None at all.

There were a number of ways in which one could sabotage the engines. A great number of ways, in fact, for a qualified Starfleet officer. And of all those ways, the saboteur had chosen perhaps the only one that indicated, with no room for doubt, his field of service. That choice reflected the way of thinking that Scotty knew only too well.

The way of thinking of an engineer.

He felt another twinge of pain, and lifted his hand to rub his forehead irritably, rather than soothingly. The realization caused him great distress. The whole ship, including the Captain, might have been entertaining the idea that Pavel Chekov was behind this, but Scotty knew with absolute gut-wrenching certainty that it was someone on his own staff. He didn't come forward because he didn't have any proof, only his instinct, which had never been wrong in his life. But he knew that it could hardly be accepted as evidence.

He was angry, though not as much as he probably should have been. Not only did the bastard betray his ship and crewmates, he betrayed him, Scott. It was true that Starfleet rarely asked for his opinion when sending in new personnel, but Scott never had any problems getting rid of those who showed no passion or wit for the job. He hand picked his staff, because it was a privilege to serve on the _Enterprise_. Not everyone was good enough for that privilege. And if some slipshod attitude might have been tolerated in some other departments, it was never allowed to happen in Engineering. Scott never cared for how many papers his officers had published or how many scientific degrees they had held. He had only one requirement—the ability to get the job done. Anyone who did not meet that requirement had no place on the team.

And yet someone of that chosen group had betrayed them all. Perhaps he should have been more angry for that reason alone, but it so happened that the emotion of being betrayed was nothing new to Scott. He was, in fact, overly familiar with that mixture of anger, pain and self-doubt.

He felt it when he had come back from his first assignment to discover that the girl that he had been in love with for four years and was going to marry was now engaged to his cousin. He felt it when his best friend had stolen his work to pass it as his own. Scott would have gladly given it to him, had he asked. He felt it, perhaps most acutely, when the commanding officer of the first ever landing party Scott had participated in had got his nerves fried by the hostile fire and ordered them to abandon the mission and withdraw. He deserted the site, without even waiting for confirmation. That was also the first time Ensign Scott had disobeyed a direct order from his superior. After the debriefing, the officer had been court-martialed, but it had been too late to save the remains of Scotty's trust into humankind.

No, there had been one too many betrayals for him to feel genuinely angry now. He was profoundly disappointed, though. It wasn't exactly clear, how one could feel disappointment where no faith had survived, yet this was the reality. Perhaps hope was harder to kill than he thought. He had long discovered that hope was the real master in simulating its own death. It seemed that no matter how many times he had been there, he was still falling for the same old trick from time to time.

Gabler, Moonshaw, Rocheva, Wong, Taloux, Zendel. About two dozens others. Scott repeated the names in his mind over and over again, weighing each one, considering, calculating. It felt almost as frustrating as playing Hot and Cold. Yet he was determined to find the answer, because obviously no one else could.

Commander Giotto had placed a Security unit inside Main Engineering. Scotty glanced over at the pair of guards and grimaced. Those people had no imagination. Had he wished, even now in their plain sight, to do some real damage, he would have had absolutely no problems doing it. They didn't understand the way things worked around here at all.

A blinking light had suddenly attracted his attention.

"What the hell..." he muttered, his hand reaching for the comm automatically. "Auxiliary Control, do ye read this? There's a pressure increase in the third vault."

"We have an all-normal here, Mr. Scott," Rocheva's voice answered him. She sounded perplexed. "It reads clean."

"Well, it sure as hell doesn't here, lass," he snapped, his hands punching the buttons rapidly. "And it's not a computer problem, it's not responding to my commands. Try yers."

"No response here, either, Mr. Scott," she was obviously worried now. "Should I send down a team?"

"Aye, on the double, I'll meet them—"

An alarm sounded behind his back, coming from the main reactor. Scotty spun around in time to watch it starting to emit erratic pulses of light energy.

"Out of my way!" Scott yelled at the confused Security guards, rushing past them.

But he was too late and he knew it. He would have recognized the cascade reaction anywhere, and one was making a smashing progress before his eyes right now. There was no time to make an announcement, and he knew there would be some casualties, but it was better than letting the warp core be damaged beyond repair. Still, if the structural integrity would not withstand the pressure... Scott had no time to dwell upon it. He broke the glass on the emergency shut down console in one decisive strike and, without taking a breath in, turned the reactor off.

The ship made a huge convulsive lurch, being brought out of warp to a full stop abruptly. The power went out, leaving a lot of hurt and groaning people to figure out what had happened in the darkness.

Scott collected himself from the deck, fighting the disorientation. He glanced at the guards to make sure they didn't sustain any life-threatening injuries, and strode to the intercom.

"Scott to Captain," he broke, wiping his cheek with his sleeve. There was a metallic taste in his mouth. He paid it no attention. "Scott to Captain Kirk."

"Kirk here," came back a slightly rasped voice. "What the hell happened, Mr. Scott?"

"Someone triggered the cascade reaction in the warp core, Captain. I had to shut down the reactor."

There was a short meaningful silence, as Kirk contemplated the implications. He had enough technical background to know perfectly well exactly what hadn't just happened.

"I'm getting in the habit of thanking you for preventing the catastrophe, Scotty," Kirk sighed. "How bad is it?"

Scott glanced over to the main controlling console. In the dim reserve lights it looked dead.

"I haven't checked yet, sir, but from the looks of it, we'll be reduced to impulse, if I can even salvage that, for a long time."

He could practically see Kirk frown.

"Mr. Scott, we're going into battle. I need warp drive, shields, phasers."

"Captain, ye're lucky we still have life support," Scott grunted. "I can give ye a full damage report in thirty minutes."

"Fine. There'd better be some good news in it. Kirk out."

Scotty swore, but only after the intercom went dead. He wasn't mad at Kirk, so much as he was angry with himself. The Captain was the captain, it was his job to demand the impossible. But Scott was the Chief Engineer, he was supposed to prevent trouble of that sort. Yet, it was the second time someone had caught him off guard. The fact that both times he managed to ruin their plans and save the ship did not appease him in the slightest. Someone on his own staff was one step ahead of him.

For the last time, he promised himself grimly. For the very last time.


	16. An Exercise in Defiance

It was amazing how thorough a change had passed over the ship in three days since the incident. Before, it was practically sparkling with military decorum and pulsating with energy. Every crewmember walking the corridors was alert and slightly jumpy with adrenaline. Now it felt as if they suffered all the consequences of the battle, without actually going into one. The maintenance crews and the entire Engineering team were edgy with overwhelming fatigue, while the rest of the crew felt utterly useless. The Captain was pacing the Bridge or his quarters, like an angry tiger. If he had claws, he would quite probably be scratching the walls in frustration as well.

What was more, Sudak seemed to have glued himself to Kirk's tail. His constant presence was silently driving the Captain mad. The tip of his tongue was now hurting unceasingly from all the times Kirk had to draw blood from it in order not to snap. Not that Sudak had given him a lot of reasons to do so, but his very presence was provocation enough.

Kirk only wished Spock would have been as persistent in seeking out his company. His First Officer's behavior worried Kirk. This was not the first crisis of similar nature they had lived through on this ship. Despite the ever-mounting list of duties, Spock had always found the time for him before. Kirk didn't expect much under the circumstances; after all, he barely had any time to spare himself. What he missed bore a more intangible quality. Some reassuring notion in a dry report. A sympathetic glance at yet another piece of bad news. An occasional silent presence at his side, telling him wordlessly that he needed not carry all the burdens alone.

It was gone, and it made Kirk nervous. During staff meetings, duty shifts and closed conferences, he found himself searching the Vulcan's face for some clues as to what had happened. He couldn't find any. It was strange and unsettling to suddenly stop _feeling_ Spock. In all respects, he was still the same competent calm reliable officer whom Kirk had known for years. In all respects, but one. Kirk couldn't even find a word to name it. Just one facet, only one, in a multi-layered composition, and yet, how acutely he felt its absence. Almost as if he was listening to a concerto, performed by a huge orchestra, and one of the musicians was suddenly gone. He couldn't even tell which, and the melody sounded seemingly the same—and yet it wasn't.

He was worried, and he didn't have the time to be worried, so he suppressed the emotion, almost subconsciously, concentrating on the surface. But, even suppressed, it added to his general frustration, making him more restless and short-tempered.

It was the end of yet another staff meeting, and he had finally accepted the change of pace in their once so smooth mission plan.

"Are you saying there's absolutely no chance of getting the warp drive back?" Kirk asked Scotty.

The Engineer sighed. McCoy was studying him with a frown that promised a medical order to rest and a lecture, but the Doctor didn't look that well himself.

"I can give ye warp one right now, Captain, but there's a big chance the relays won't hold up. We'll be back to where we started."

"How big a chance?"

Scott glanced at him gravely.

"It'll happen."

Kirk sighed. "Shields and weapons?"

"Operational. But the shields won't withstand much. It's likely they'll collapse at the first well-aimed shot."

The Captain contemplated his words for a moment, then turned his attention to Giotto.

"Commander, how long can one person hide from a massive search around here?"

Giotto was too well-trained to blush, but his lips tensed before he answered.

"Captain, we're doing everything we can to find Ensign Chekov. But with the internal sensors still offline, I'd say he can elude us indefinitely."

"Indefinitely?"

"He does know the ship very well, sir."

Kirk scrutinized him for several long seconds, letting his gaze carry his displeasure. Finally his glance slid over to Spock.

"Mr. Spock, how long will it take us to reach the Beluska sector on impulse?"

Spock stared at him impassively.

"Approximately five days, thirteen hours, Captain. Assuming nothing else happens."

Scott shifted uncomfortably in his seat at these words, but remained silent.

"Then, we are still the closest ship," Kirk sighed tiredly. "I spoke with Command this morning, our orders remain in effect. Lieutenant," he peered at Uhura. "Get to the Bridge, have Mr. Sulu resume course for Beluska, full impulse."

"Yes, sir," she got up.

Kirk nodded to the others. "Dismissed."

They all started to get to their feet, and the rate of their movements was a good indicator of their general state.

"Mr. Spock, Mr. Scott, one more word with you, if you please," Kirk said suddenly. "Bones, could you wait for me outside? I want to grab some dinner, and I bet you haven't eaten yet, either."

McCoy looked mildly surprised, but nodded readily. "Sure, Jim."

Kirk looked around and noticed, with another twinge of annoyance, that Sudak had made no move to leave.

"Commissioner, if you don't mind, I need to speak to my officers alone."

The Vulcan frowned slightly. "As you wish, Captain, but this will have to be mentioned in my report."

McCoy snorted in the doorway.

"I'd cave in, Jim. God forbid, Starfleet Command will know that you prefer to discuss some things with your First Officer and your Chief Engineer tête-à-tête. Probably no one else in the fleet does it."

The corner of Kirk's mouth twitched, as if he was fighting a grin.

"I'll take that chance."

Sudak nodded, still frowning, and finally left.

The Captain rounded on his officers immediately, all hints of amusement erased from his face. Both Spock and Scott stood suddenly very straight and still.

"Gentlemen, for how long will the internal sensors remain offline?" he snapped, eyeing them strictly.

Involuntarily, the Vulcan and the human glanced at each other. Scott swallowed. Spock replied cautiously.

"Captain, with so many of our systems affected by the shutdown, I thought it would be safer if we ran a diagnostic first..."

"For three days?"

"We—had to be sure," Scott muttered, his cheeks coloring slightly. "There was a mighty big chance we could damage the system even further, and—"

"Mr. Scott," Kirk cut him off sharply. "You're incapable of that kind of incompetence. And Spock, I don't even have a comment for you."

"Captain—"

"Sir—"

"Save it, both of you, I don't want to hear it," he cut the air with his hand impatiently. "I know what you're trying to do, and I'm telling you that you won't solve anything that way. Really, Mr. Spock, I'm surprised at you. Is your logic on the blank run or something? And Engineer, you are the last person from whom I would expect such irresponsible behavior."

He glanced from one to the other. Both were silent, eyes glued to the deck. Kirk almost felt amused at this uncharacteristic unity, but made sure irritation was prevalent in his voice.

"I don't care which one of you is behind this, and I don't care which one will fix it, but I want it fixed, is that clear?"

There was a simultaneous response.

"Yes/Aye, sir."

Kirk glared at them for another moment with his best basilisk stare, then nodded curtly. "That'll be all."

After the doors swished closed behind him, Scott turned to glance at the Vulcan. Spock raised an eyebrow.

"I assume you have located the lockout?"

"Aye," Scott sighed. "The third intersection. Deck Eight. I take it ye've found the computer block?"

"Indeed. I shall have to remove it."

Their eyes met and held.

"One hour?"

"Tis the best we can do. The Captain is—"

"I was here, Mr. Scott. One hour then."

"I hope the lad gets the heads-up."

The eyebrow rose up again. "Obviously. I shall be working on the Bridge."

Scott grinned and shook his head.

"Of all the crazy things I've seen here, Mr. Spock, this one's bound for the record."

Spock sighed, very quietly. "I tend to agree. However, we might not have seen all of it yet."

"Aye," Scott shrugged. "I'll be in Engineering."

 

 

\--

 

"Do I want to know what that all was about?" McCoy asked when Kirk emerged from the briefing room.

"No," the Captain replied curtly, starting for the turbolift. "You don't mind if we eat in my quarters, do you? I need to talk to you."

McCoy whistled softly. "Do I get worried?"

Kirk rolled his eyes and rubbed his neck wearily.

"I don't know, Bones. Spanking is a tiresome exercise, and Spock and Scotty seemed to have drained my reserves."

"That's too bad," McCoy noted. "I hate being grateful to Spock."

Kirk glanced at him sideways.

"You'll have to live with it."

The Doctor sighed.

By unspoken agreement, they spent the rest of the way in silence. Once inside the Captain's quarters, Kirk waved McCoy to a chair and called his Yeoman to arrange for two meals to be brought to his cabin. He then sat quietly opposite his CMO and regarded him closely. McCoy waited patiently for him to speak.

"Bones, I've had a rather peculiar conversation with Starfleet Command," the Captain said finally.

McCoy's eyebrows arched.

"Shouldn't you get used to those by now? What about, anyway?"

Kirk fixed him with a heavy stare.

"You."

"Oh. Not a pleasant one, I bet."

"No. It wasn't pleasant at all. Bones, they demanded to relieve you off duty."

"What?" McCoy looked incensed. "On what grounds?"

"Not on grounds, Bones," Kirk shook his head. "On charges."

"On what charges?"

"Disrespect towards a superior officer. They are quite serious," Kirk stared at him fixedly, a mild flow of curiosity crossing his eyes. "Just what did you call Admiral Leland in that letter?"

McCoy felt his face flushing with indignation, but the answer came promptly to him. Kirk's eyes widened.

"Bones!" he laughed, despite his better intention. "Did you really have the gall to—"

The buzzer sounded, announcing the arrival of their dinner.

"Enter," Kirk called, still gaping at his friend in bemusement.

"Your dinner, sir," the Yeoman placed two trays she was carrying on the desk in front of them.

"Thank you," Kirk nodded, without sparing her a glance. "Excused."

"I don't know what you are so surprised about, Jim," McCoy grunted, eyeing his chicken with distinct distaste. "I don't think the fact that one of Leland's ancestors was a mule is at all debatable."

"Bones," Kirk sighed, taking a bite of his pasta. "You can't win these people over by insulting them."

"And I got tired of being constantly put on hold, Jim," the Doctor's mood was rapidly turning foul. "Leland is a bigot and an asshole, and I don't have a problem with that. What I do have a problem with, is that this bigot and asshole is in charge of the budget for Starfleet Medical."

"Is this about your education program?"

"You know it is. Dammit, Jim, there's gotta be a limit to human stupidity! They complain—constantly, mind you—that there're not enough nonhumans in the Academy and in the fleet. They think about it, talk about it and do nothing about it, because guess what?—they have no idea what to do about it! Well, I can tell you why Starfleet resembles a Homo sapiens club only. We're in a dangerous business here, and without proper medical attention, the chances of survival are zero. Jim, I've served in Starfleet for twenty years and I have never, never at all, met at least one person who hadn't been injured, or wounded, or affected somehow in the line of duty. Not a single one!"

"Bones—"

"How can they ask these people to serve, without meeting their basic needs? It's inhuman and it's a violation of their rights!"

"Bones, medical care is provided for all personnel."

"On paper! In reality it's totally inadequate! Jim, do you know how much time medical students at Starfleet Academy spend studying xenobiology? Two semesters! What could you possibly learn in two semesters? How is it possible, Captain, sir, that you _CMO_ had his first surgical experience with a Vulcan patient when a distinguished Ambassador was dying on his hands? Jim, it's not just illogical, it's insane! You know of Sarek's accomplishments. To think that such a man could have died in my Sick Bay just because all I had was _theoretical_ knowledge..."

"But he didn't die, Bones," Kirk reminded him consolingly. "You and Spock saved him."

"By pure luck, if you ask me, and a great deal of Vulcan stubbornness. Just because their race is better suited for survival doesn't mean we can be careless. Since you've mentioned Spock, let's talk about him. I had to literally use him as a practicing dummy. I hardly believe that Starfleet had invested all that money to make him the best first officer in the fleet so that I could poke and prod him with a laser scalpel while my eyes are closed. I feel like I _am_ a sawbones sometimes."

"You should give yourself some credit, Bo—Doctor. I heard your research on Vulcan physiology had been received quite eagerly in the medical circles."

"It's a drop in the ocean, Jim," McCoy sighed heavily, putting his fork down, as his appetite had left him completely. "Do you know what that abysmal lack of knowledge does to a medic? I had sworn, Jim, that I would do no harm. How can I be certain..." he trailed off, sliding deeper into his unpleasant thoughts. "Do you remember Lieutenant Arex, Captain?"

"Of course. He was a good officer."

"Do you know why he left the ship?"

"He said he had some family obligations—"

"No, Jim," McCoy looked at him squarely, his eyes glinting dangerously. "He had no obligations. I'm betraying the doctor-patient confidentiality now, but it's too late anyway. He left because he had developed a degenerative illness. You think your talk with Command was tough? Trust me you wouldn't want to have been there when I got a call from his physician. It turned out, his condition was treatable, but, by the time he got back to Edos, one of his arms was completely anemic."

"Bones, I had no idea," Kirk said softly.

"He asked me not to tell anyone."

"How's he now, do you know?"

"The effects are reversible, but it's a slow process," McCoy grimaced. "The point is, Jim, I could have treated him here, had I known then what I know now. He didn't have to leave at all."

"What about M'Ress?" Kirk inquired a bit warily. The lovely Caitian made quite a lasting impression on the whole crew, but her tour of duty was also unnaturally brief.

"Oh, that's my favorite," McCoy snorted mirthlessly. "She was a felinoid, right? A lot of people, as you know, are allergic to cats. Starfleet 'all-inclusive' vaccination doesn't take care of that one, believe it or not. Did you know, Jim, that all Caitians serving with humans are required to take daily injections of _tisourine_ to stop their fur from falling out throughout the day? As a result, each night before turning in, they have to undergo quite an unpleasant procedure to let the nature take its course. It's damn uncomfortable."

" _They_ are required to take injections?" Kirk asked slightly taken aback. "Not the allergic people?"

"No," McCoy confirmed with grim satisfaction. "In a society of total equality, such as ours, we go to surprising lengths to ensure first and foremost the comfort of the humans."

"So she—"

"She developed an allergy of her own—to that blasted thing. She's forced to wait until a solution could be found. I have some ideas about it, but honestly, Jim..." he shook his head in frustration. "What right do we have to treat them that way? It's not only medical stuff, mind you. It's small things, too. The food, the temperature. Until Lady Amanda told me, I had no idea that _mel'aneesh_ salad was essential to Vulcan diet. Spock had to compensate for it by taking pills, and they aren't nearly as effective. We have a greenhouse that occupies the quarter of a whole deck to provide for four hundred people. Have we ever asked Spock if there was anything in particular he needed to be planted there?"

"He could have told us."

"Spock? Told us about something he needed not as First Officer, but as a living being? Jim, you've got to be kidding."

Kirk couldn't argue with that. He stared at McCoy thoughtfully, his eyes twinkling softly.

"I seem to distinctly remember mel'aneesh leaves on his plate some couple of days ago."

McCoy blushed slightly.

"I'm responsible for the wellbeing of this crew," he stated adamantly. "The whole crew, Captain. Not just humans. Of course, I took care of it. At the first Starbase we visited after Babel."

Kirk grinned and shook his head.

"Does Spock know how deeply you care, Bones?"

"Spock doesn't need to know everything," the Doctor grunted darkly. "And for the record, just because I see to him being physically fit, doesn't mean that I like this walking calculating machine the tiniest bit better. I monitor your diet card, too. Do you care?"

"Of course," Kirk was still grinning at him. "I hate my menu for the most part, but I do appreciate your concern. I'm sure Spock would be grateful—"

"Don't you dare!" McCoy exclaimed empathically. "I'm warning you, Jim. One word of this reaches his pointy ears, and I'll make your next physical a living hell."

Kirk raised his hands, signaling surrender.

"You're quite formidable as it is, Doctor," he said, getting serious. "Which brings us back to the question whether you'll be the one performing the next physical on me. As masochistic as it may be of me, I'd really prefer it that way."

"Jim, what do you want from me?" McCoy sighed. "You heard what I said, and I know that you agree with me. _Spock_ agrees with me, and isn't that a thought? But Leland... This problem needs to be addressed and it needs to be addressed right now. We can't call ourselves a civilized society and treat people like that at the same time. I have a solution at the ready. The idiot just wouldn't budge."

"Bones, I appreciate what you're trying to do and I'm one hundred percent behind you. But alienating half the admiralty is hardly helpful. We need to think about it with cold heads. Logically. We need to know what's happening on Earth before we'd find a means to get through to them. Wait till the end of the mission. I promise you I'll fight for your program until they give."

"Jim, I appreciate your support, but believe me you don't want to get into this."

"Bones, what I really don't want is to lose you. I've made all sorts of excuses, telling them I'd personally check your spelling next time, but please don't provoke them again."

"Jim—"

Kirk looked him in the eye squarely.

"Bones, do you trust me?" McCoy just stared at him. "Then trust me on this one, old friend. Don't do anything rush. We'll fight for it together. I have a feeling there's a certain Vulcan Ambassador who might be willing to render us some political help," he grinned. Then, his smile faded. "Please, Bones. These people mean business. I need you here with me, now more than ever. By going alone, you're playing right into their hands. Don't let them take you away from me."

McCoy didn't say anything for a while, contemplating his words. He was moved deeply by Jim's raw plea, but at the same time, he was torn apart by the injustice of what was happening and the reason of Jim's suggestion. He sighed resolutely.

"All right," he said finally, glancing up at Kirk, who'd been holding his breath. "No more letters. But I need you to promise something to me, Jim."

"Anything," Kirk breathed out readily. "Just name it."

"If when we return to Earth it turns out that by fighting for my cause you'd be damaging your career—"

"Bones!"

"Let me finish, Captain. I know what command is to you, Jim, and I won't let you lose it if I can help it," McCoy said firmly. "I haven't ever been a very popular guy with Command, Jim. By sticking up for me, you're not going to score any points."

Silently, Kirk stood up and walked around the desk to stand in front of the Doctor. He reached out determinedly and lifted McCoy to his feet, placing their eyes on a level. Boring deeply into that rebellious sparkling blue gaze, he spoke very quietly and very earnestly.

"If you think for one moment that my image of Starfleet's 'Golden Boy' is more important for me than your success in this matter, think again," his fingers, still closed tightly around McCoy's arm, pressed even harder. "If it were only a question of helping a friend as close as you, I'd do it with eyes closed. But it's not just about friendship, Bones. It's about I think that you're right. And for that, I will fight with all the strength I possess, with all the wits I can summon. Whether you let me stand at your side or not."

McCoy felt his eyes starting to burn and knew he had to break the mood quickly, if he didn't want to embarrass himself completely.

"I will be honored, sir," he said in a hoarse voice, touched deeply by his friend's declaration and fighting the feeling desperately. "Now can you let go of my arm while I still can feel some circulation in it?"

Kirk laughed and let him go.

"I don't know how Spock can live with your constant presence in his mind, Jim," the Doctor grunted half-jokingly. "You're too damn intense."

"Spock is quite something himself. Anyway, that's why he taught me to shield," Kirk said as casually as he could and winked. "Had I known you're empathic, I'd have done it."

"No," McCoy shook his head. "It's been a while since I've seen you like this. It's been... refreshing, for a change."

"Are you saying I'm getting rusty, Doctor?"

"That's what your next physical will tell us," McCoy intoned deadpan. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I still seem to have duties to perform."

"See that you continue to do so, Bones."

McCoy saluted flippantly. "Aye, aye, sir."

Kirk waited till he was out of the door, before he called the Bridge for a status report.


	17. Mousetrap

Spock stared at the tactical display of Radune, the fifth planet in Beluska sector. Fighting to restore normal operations aboard the ship after another act of sabotage had left him very little time to execute the Captain's request of three days ago. Now he had almost finished, but the data he collected and analyzed did not look particularly encouraging. Whichever of those worlds would be chosen by what humans called 'the luck of the draw,' it would present a very difficult setting. Most of the planets were populated, which made the task even harder, because lowering the number of civilian casualties could only be achieved by increasing the rate of casualties among the _Enterprise_ crew. Spock found the idea highly disturbing.

There was no point of raising the issue with the Captain again. Spock knew, even though he had been absent during those conversations, that Starfleet Command would not allow them to skip this mission, even though they were now crippled. There was a certain cruelly pragmatic logic to this persistence. Why endanger another ship when the _Enterprise_ had been hit already? What were several more wounds for them to lick? Spock could clearly see the reason behind this strategy, and the emotionless tactician in him approved it.

Still, the decision bothered him, as he had reluctantly admitted to himself. Sudak seemed to be right on many accounts. He felt much more attached to his shipmates than any Vulcan should be. He did not simply work side by side with these people, he was living the same life they were. He was living it with them.

What he was experiencing now, studying his own tactical plans, was trepidation. He did not wish to see them harmed in any way. Much less killed. Yet, he knew that he would give and follow orders which would send others to danger, without hesitation, and the best he could hope for was to be allowed to share that risk.

No, he would not try to discuss this with the Captain again. Kirk knew the implications of this decision better than anyone, and Spock had no desire to twist the knife in that wound. Normally, he would have tried to ease Kirk's tension a little by any means available, but now he wouldn't. In the past, such exchanges, verbal or physical, had served well to reassure them both. Spock never deluded himself in this particular respect—he had always drawn almost as much comfort from those encounters as he had given. He wished he could go to Jim now and tell him what was on his mind.

He shouldn't.

He couldn't.

But it was hard, especially as he sensed the growing unrest in Jim, triggering an instinctive urge to ease it within him. Spock almost felt like a traitor. They were called the best command team in the fleet, and they were, though hardly anyone understood why. It wasn't because of that understanding between them that rendered words useless. It was because they shared. Not only responsibilities, but all the moral implications and all the emotional burdens behind every decision.

Now, because of him, they were each struggling with a gruesome situation on their own. Spock was reinforcing his shields constantly, which was draining, but he was determined. He had been a threat to Jim long enough, without either of them suspecting it. He would be no longer.

The intercom whistled softly, and Spock turned towards it. He was expecting this call.

"Spock here."

"Lieutenant Aoula, sir. I have finished."

"Very well, I shall be right there."

He saved his own data, and walked into the neighboring lab.

Lieutenant Aoula was an attractive young woman from Virgin Isles, who loved experimenting with her hair color almost as much as with elementary particles. Some of her experiments ended in an unforeseen manner, leaving her with a permanent vivid color that would not fade. The shade was far from meeting regulations, but since the effect was irreversible, the Lieutenant was allowed to continue. She was a gifted chemist and physicist, and she also had a thorough technical background, but McCoy had noted once that she had only ended up in the Science department because Spock was the only person on board who could look at that bubblegum pink color without wincing.

She looked up at him as he entered and smiled.

"I cleared up most of it, sir," she gestured towards the damaged recorder. "And the computer has just finished the reconstruction. The voice is not authentic, but the words are distinguishable. I mended it together."

He nodded, coming to look at the screen over her shoulder.

"Computer, activate playback."

' _Personal log. I have no idea why I even continue with this stupid habit. Must be Starfleet training. God, it's so damned ironic. I went to the Academy because I thought I could make a difference. Show them what they are missing. And now—now I'm here, killing people. This wasn't what I wanted when I joined the Nailers. Holy shit, this wasn't what I wanted at all. I was just so tired of speaking what no one would listen to. I felt actions would speak louder, but I never wanted it to turn this way. I never hated aliens. I just wanted us to embrace our own roots, that's all._

 _Chekov, I'm going to send you this, because Maryann doesn't want it. Risked my neck to talk to her, and she said she didn't want to have anything to do with me anymore, that she regretted ever being involved with me. But I need to talk to someone. It seems, Pasha, you're the only person I can still call a friend. Promise me you'll listen. Chances are I'm dead when you do, so out of respect for the dead, if for no other reason._

 _I'm afraid I'm not going to last. Kramer suspects that it was me who gave away our position to Starfleet. I wish you could see his face, the blasted witch-hunter. This man knows nothing, except violence. I don't know how I could have ever trusted him. He says now we must make them stick to Earth literally and help them do it._

 _All right, enough whining. I need you to do me a favor. I need someone to set the record straight. Can you still hear me, Chekov? You must do it for me, in the name of our former friendship. I thought of you at times as if you were my younger brother. I know I pushed you a lot, and we both have been too stubborn to listen. Remember we played hockey with the Andorians and one of them got injured? We had a replacement and they didn't. So you switched teams to continue the match. I was pissed as hell, you were my best player. I believed you betrayed us, but I know now I was wrong. You were just being fair. I always respected you for that—you always wanted justice._

 _Chekov, contact Maryann. Tell her I'm sorry. About everything. Her, you, this mess. I wish I could do things differently. But don't pity me, both of you. Never let it be said that Alexander Courage was afraid to face the consequences of his actions. I only hope I can send this away before I have to activate my plan._

 _Hell, you know I was always better with History and Literature than with machines or devices. Well, thank God for Starfleet engineering course. I barely passed my test, but compared to these people, I'm an engineering genius. I've rigged an explosive mechanism, triggered by one press of the button. If Kramer orders us to attack another colony, I'd blow up the ship. He might claim we're fighting for a holy cause, but I don't think so anymore._

 _This recording must reach you, Pasha, and Maryann. Promise me. End log.'_

"I knew he was innocent!" Aoula exclaimed triumphantly. "He's too cute to be involved with those people."

Spock fought to suppress a grimace.

"Lieutenant, this is one piece of reasoning that one does not wish to hear from a fellow scientist."

She grinned. "Works every time, Mr. Spock. Maybe you should try it."

"I think not. You are correct, however, Mr. Chekov is not a _Nailer_. Which makes the question of why he is still hiding from us even more intriguing."

Aoula shrugged. "He's probably just scared."

Spock was clearly doubtful.

"Ensign Chekov does not strike me as a person who can _stay_ scared for four days. At any rate, you should bring this to the Captain at once."

"Me, sir?" she looked at him in astonishment. "But I thought you—"

"I have other duties to perform at the moment, Lieutenant," he uncharacteristically interrupted her. "You have my full confidence to brief the Captain. Commander Giotto must be present as well."

"Yes, sir," she got up to her feet, still looking puzzled. "Right away, sir."

"Lieutenant. Good work."

She smiled tentatively. "Thank you, sir."

He left the room after her and returned to his own study. Glancing fleetingly at the large screen, which he programmed to show ship's status, he frowned and paused to study it. He magnified Main Engineering sector, and his frown deepened. There was an open vent at the second primary junction. Spock, who remembered the repairs schedule Scott had showed him, was absolutely certain that no one was supposed to be in there.

Automatically he reached for the comm and suddenly stopped. His eyes narrowed, as he studied the diagram. Abruptly, Spock turned the screen off and left the Lab in a hurry.

 

 

\--

 

Chekov was tired of crawling. He didn't think he had straightened up twice in the past four days. He had seen parts of the ship he never wished to see again, but as long as it served the purpose...

He now took strategic position in the ventilation tube over Engineering. He knew he didn't have much time. Uhura managed to communicate to him that the internal sensors would be working any minute now. He had that long to fulfill his intentions.

It all came over back to Engineering. Chekov was certain that it was someone on the engineering staff who had done all this. He had never been particularly fond of detective stories, though in his youth he had read quite a bit, but this assault was personal, and he tried to round up all knowledge and deductive logic he could. His reasoning, in the end, was quite simple, but he consoled himself with the notion that so were all things ingenious.

First of all, both acts of sabotage took place in Engineering. Why? Because this was the only way to destroy the whole ship. Secondly, Chekov knew that after that first attack, the access to Engineering Deck was severely limited. The saboteur, he thought, would not want to give themselves away too early. But if he or she were working in Engineering, they would not have had this problem. And the second attack proved exactly that. So now it was only logical to assume that the saboteur was persistent enough to try again and that Engineering would be the place to lay assault once more.

So Chekov decided to keep constant watch. He took position in one of the tubes incorporated into the sidewalls, and waited. There was barely enough space for him to half-lie or crawl, but he couldn't even sit up. His whole body was aching and restless, and he couldn't even budge much, if he didn't want to attract attention. Least of all he wanted to be caught and dragged out of the tube in front of Mr. Scott, who was plainly livid after everything that had happened to his engines.

At the thought of Scott though, Chekov frowned. He could not believe that the Engineer could have been this careless. From his position, Chekov could clearly see the open vent on the second primary junction. Anyone could come and throw in something containing foreign energy. A tricorder or a hand-scanner. A screwdriver. A stylus even. Almost anything even slightly powered introduced into the plasma converter would be enough to leave the ship motionless for a very long time.

How could Scotty possibly have let this happen? Chekov bit his lips until they started to bleed. There was no one even on duty here! For a minute, he considered slipping out of the tube and closing the blasted vent, but the risk of detection was too big. Besides, Chekov thought suddenly, Scott's uncharacteristic sloppiness might play right into his hands. If he, Chekov, could realize what a chance this open vent represented, he was fairly certain that so could the saboteur. If Chekov was in his place, he would seize this opportunity. He was sure that the saboteur would, too.

The doors opened, and Chekov tensed, trying to bend his neck in a frankly impossible angle to see who it was. For a minute or two, he could only see a rather tall and thin shadow on the deck, but the lights were soft, and the silhouette was blurry.

 _C'mon_ , Chekov urged, as his fingers were going numb at the lock of the hatch. _Let's get this over with._

As if his mute plea was heard, the figure moved into the center of the room, and Chekov stifled a gasp. Angelica Rocheva. A skinny grey-haired woman, who had always reminded him of a mouse. Every time he spoke to her, which blessedly didn't happen too often, he couldn't help but picture white whiskers under that long sharp nose. There was a chance, of course, that she was here by coincidence. Her reaction when she would see the open vent would be crucial. Chekov felt his arms and legs tense painfully.

She suddenly froze, and he knew she had seen the vent. What would she do? If she was not a saboteur, she would move to close it. If she was...

Slowly, she glanced at the padd in her hand and then back at the open orifice. Her fingers tightened around the stylus she was holding. She glanced back at the door nervously, and then—then she stepped towards the vent, not the control panel.

There was no more need to maintain silence. With all his prowess, Chekov pushed the panel open and climbed out of the tube. Unfortunately, his very position, as well as considerable numbness in his limbs, did not allow his move to be as swift as the situation demanded.

Startled by the sudden loud bang, Rocheva spun around. She squeaked and let go of the padd. Her hand slid to her belt, and she drew out a phaser at the same moment that Chekov managed to come to his feet.

"Don't," she said, as he made an instinctive step toward her. "It's set to kill."

Desperately, his mind searched for something, anything to distract her. Someone was bound to detect that open vent. If only he could stall her long enough...

"I love you," he blurted out, surprising himself.

"What?" she gaped at him, her finger on the trigger tensing. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I love you, Angelica," he repeated, this time earnestly, making another micro step toward her and reaching out with his hand. "I have fallen in love with you from the moment we met."

"Stop right there," she snapped, but her hand was shaking.

He pressed on his advantage.

"Remember the other day in the Mess when you stumbled at my table? I thought you were going to me and I—"

"Shut up!" she glanced back nervously. If she turned her back on him and rushed to the vent, he'd have enough time to intercept her. She knew she should fire, and yet, couldn't pull the trigger. "Shut the hell up!"

"Angelica, listen to me," there was barely a meter between them. "You are so beautiful. I have always—"

Several things happened in the next moment. The doors started to open, and both Chekov and Rocheva glanced at them involuntarily. Both were startled to see Spock standing there with a phaser in his hand, but she reacted faster. She jumped forward, eliminating the distance between herself and the runaway Ensign, grabbed him and pressed her own phaser to his head, using him as a shield between her and Spock.

"Stay where you are or I'll blast his head off!"

Spock nodded slowly, demonstrating that he understood.

"Are you all right, Ensign?"

Chekov felt his lips twitching.

"Do I look all right, sir?"

"Shut up, both of you!"

"Lieutenant, Security guards are on their way," Spock informed her. "Lay down your weapon. This is over."

"Nothing's over! Get in here—slowly!"

Spock was obviously in no rush to comply, and she pressed her phaser to Chekov's temple for emphasis.

"Move!"

Chekov thought that she didn't demand that Spock would lay down his weapon, and suddenly that made him more nervous than he already was. He thought he knew what was on her mind.

Spock walked slowly inside the large room, his eyes glued to the unlikely couple.

"Go to the vent," Rocheva instructed. "Now!"

"Don't, Mr. Spock!" Chekov yelled, unable to help himself. "If anything falls in there—"

"I'm well aware of the consequences, Ensign," Spock replied coolly. "And I have no intention of fulfilling Ms. Rocheva's request. I am very sorry."

He was looking directly into Chekov's eyes, and the Ensign realized what Spock was telling him with absolute clarity. It was Chekov's life or the safety of the _Enterprise_. Spock chose the latter. Chekov couldn't blame him. He realized, he would have, too.

With a growl, Rocheva pushed her hostage forcibly into Spock's arms, blocking his aim and making them both momentarily lose their balance. She spun around and rushed towards the vent, eating the deck under her feet two meters a step. She was there faster, than either of them could react. Chekov, who managed to look back just in time, felt his heart sinking. They lost the race, it was over.

A phaser beam hit her in the shoulder, whirling her around. She screamed, her hand rising to fire back automatically, and then Spock fired, too, this time rendering her unconscious.

From the back of the room, Montgomery Scott was striding towards them, looking grim and resolute. He glanced over at Spock, who still had a supportive arm around Chekov's shoulders.

"Are ye both all right?"

"Seemingly," Spock replied, sliding his phaser back into the holster. "Ensign?"

Chekov made several tentative steps, reached the nearest console and leaned on it heavily. His knees felt weak.

"Yes," he nodded, watching Scott picking up Rocheva's phaser. "You were here the whole time? Why didn't you fire earlier?"

Scott looked at him darkly.

"How did I know she wouldn't blast yer brains out, lad? Ye should have stayed where ye were."

" _I_ should have?" Chekov straightened up, angrily. "She nearly made it to the vent! Had she fired, she'd have blown us all to pieces."

To his surprise, Scott grinned dryly.

"What, with this thing?" he waved the phaser in the air carelessly.

Then, before any of them could so much as draw a breath in, he turned and fired right into the vent. Chekov gasped, barely managing to duck in time, when the reflected beam missed his head by some two inches.

"Nah," Scott shook his head thoughtfully. "I dinna think so."

"A forcefield?" Spock inquired calmly. He didn't seem surprised.

"Aye. Wasn't easy to rig it without anyone noticing."

"Mr. Scott," Spock intoned, letting mere glimpses of his exasperation show. "This is hardly the correct procedure. You should have alerted Security."

"And what good that would have done?" Scott asked scornfully. "Did ye really expect me to wait for them to finally put two and two together while I had one of my lads messing around the ship?"

"No," the Vulcan actually sighed. "I did not. However—"

"You did that deliberately," Chekov realized at last. "You set her up."

Scott snorted humorlessly. His eyes fell upon the unconscious woman, and he frowned again, a shadow crossing his face, transforming it into a blank mask and finally taking refuge in his eyes. Spock, who was about to activate the intercom, took a cautious step toward him.

"Mr. Scott."

The Engineer looked at him. Spock didn't say anything else and didn't move any closer. They stood facing each other, quiescent, mute, with a motionless body on the deck between them. Scott suddenly jerked his chin upwards, as if trying to free his neck from a throttle, and then turned away to activate the control panel. The vent closed.

Chekov felt suddenly light-headed. As if through a veil, he watched the Security team rush in, heard vaguely them asking questions. He was suddenly floating, barely keeping upright, swaying from fatigue and euphoria.

"You have a lot to explain, Ensign," Giotto said.

Chekov merely nodded. It didn't matter if he'd be explaining things for a month now. He was innocent and he was safe.

And he was home.


	18. Losing Ground

The Hangar Deck was buzzing with activity, despite the late hour. Sulu, who was left in charge of the engineering team that had been upgrading the shuttlecraft's systems according to his specifications, smiled, as he concluded yet another status report. They were moving ahead of schedule.

The Helmsman was feeling pleased with the turn of events, though he was far from sharing his emotions with anyone. His enthusiasm was slightly spiked with guilt. Surely he wasn't happy that the saboteur had managed to cripple so many of their systems, including the long range sensors. But he was glad, yes, glad that they had decided to use one of the shuttlecrafts for a covert reconnaissance mission to determine the _Nailers'_ whereabouts.

His smile faltered slightly when he looked up to see Spock entering the deck. He was hoping he would not be the one to give the First Officer the news, but apparently his luck was out.

"Lieutenant," Spock nodded to him.

"Sir," Sulu handed him the padd. "We are almost done."

Spock glanced at the shuttlecraft pensively.

"Why is the _Copernicus_ being upgraded? I believe you were planning to take the _Galileo_?"

Sulu breathed in deeply, as if preparing for a dive.

"The Captain prefers the _Copernicus_ , sir. He said he will be going on this mission."

There, he'd said it. Spock was looking at him impassively, his strict features remained unmoved. His eyes, however... Sulu shivered.

"Sir, I told him it wasn't a good idea," he said hastily.

Spock's gaze drifted towards the shuttle, and the Helmsman let out the breath he'd been holding.

"Carry on, Mr. Sulu," the First Officer broke finally.

He turned on his heel abruptly and left.

"You know," Gabler said, sticking his head from under the shuttle. "If there could ever be such a time when I _wouldn't_ want to be the captain, it would be now."

"Get back to work," Sulu advised him, though without bite. He wouldn't want to be in Kirk's place right now, either.

Spock strode into the corridor, trying to find appropriate words to describe his reaction.

He appeared to be in check.

They had been playing this game for over a week now, with Spock fighting to make their relationship more impersonal, and Kirk fighting back. Spock had been outmatched from the start, as he had to struggle with both Jim and himself, but he knew it would have been naïve to expect some mercy on this account. Fair play was nowhere near Kirk's priorities when he was determined to win.

Spock was blindsided every minute of every day, but so far he always managed to take refuge in reason and logic. When he felt his own weakness surfacing, he reminded himself firmly of the danger he represented. If only Jim could understand...

But it was painfully obvious that Spock's skills in crisis management were more than lacking. Throughout the week he was watching the metamorphoses Jim was going through. At first, he was confused. Then worried. Afraid that he had done something wrong. Plain scared that Spock was in trouble. Annoyed that no explanations arrived. Hurt that Spock would not trust him. Angry. Very angry. And throughout all that, Spock had to maintain a demeanor of absolute calmness and complete failure to notice that something was wrong.

He didn't know how he managed to live through that week. It was torture to meet Jim's questioning, at times frankly imploring gaze. It was torture to feel Jim's eyes following him constantly whenever he was in sight. It was torture to feel the pain he was causing the other in his own mind.

Spock knew it would not be easy. He had known it from the moment he had made the decision. Jim was not the kind of man who gave up without a fight. And sure enough, the human had used every trick in the book to gain an advantage. But what he did now—what he did now was stepping over the line. Spock had tried so hard to show that everything would stay the same between them in the professional area. Kirk, apparently, had no reservations as he insolently used Spock's wish to maintain status quo to obtain an upper hand.

It seemed to be an 'all-or-nothing' ultimatum, and Spock realized he was reacting emotionally. More specifically, he was angry. Knowing that his inner reserves were overexploited and his control precarious at best, he was not at all surprised by this, but hardly pleased with himself. He had to be stronger. He was fighting for both of them, after all.

He hit the nearest comm panel.

"Spock to Captain Kirk."

Surprisingly, a female voice answered.

"Nurse Chapel here, Mr. Spock. The Captain is in the zero-G booth. Do you need me to pull him out?"

Spock took a moment to consider this.

"No. I will come down myself."

"Yes, sir."

He walked along the corridors determinedly, missing completely the startled glances the passing crewmembers were giving him.

The zero-G booth was directly above the gymnasium. It was meant to train the crew to work—and fight—in conditions of low or no gravity, and it wasn't something most people enjoyed. The level of coordination and physical strength necessary for successful performance was considerably high. This was not the safest environment, and supervision was obligatory when anyone went into the booth.

Chapel glanced up at Spock as he entered the small monitor chamber. Her smile died barely born, as she took a note of the expression on his face.

"Mr. Spock!" she called nervously, as he made silently for the entrance. He paused. "You need to change."

He turned to look at her strictly, and she flushed.

"I do not intend to take part in the exercise, Nurse," Spock said coldly.

She pursed her lips, looking at him apologetically.

"I'm sorry, sir, but the Captain ordered not to let anyone in, unless they're wearing full combat gear."

Spock's expression tensed even more, as he fought against the pang of frustration. Involuntarily, he shot a glance at the wall separating the chamber and the booth, and if the inanimate duranium panels could feel, they would have melted under the intense heat of his stare.

The Captain, apparently, knew he was coming. He knew and he made sure that they would meet on his terms. Well, Spock never doubted the strategic abilities of one James Kirk. But Spock wasn't obliged to comply. He could simply turn around and leave, and talk to the Captain later.

"How long has he been there?" Spock asked tersely.

"About thirty minutes," Chapel chirped.

Enough time to fully acclimatize with the zero-G conditions. The Captain made certain to have both the disposition and the advantage. Spock felt his lips pressing harder together.

The choice was still his.

He turned around abruptly and walked into the locker room. He proceeded straight to the row of racks and ordered the doors to open. As any training in zero-G, be it work or combat, required a specific outfit, which was sensitive to the conditions it was kept in, the quartermaster made sure that there would only be the exact number of booked working suits available for each session. Spock had no intention of working out in the booth tonight, therefore he never made a reservation. But as the doors slid open, he saw the suit laid carefully on the shelf. It was marked 'Size 2'.

Spock stared at it. The Captain wore size 1, so there could have been no mistake. It wasn't some spare suit that the quartermaster would put in here for Kirk's benefit. This one was meant for him.

Spock felt the anger rise within him, and fought to master it. Not only Kirk knew he was coming, he also appeared to know that Spock wouldn't decide to leave. For some reason, being outmaneuvered like that was profoundly disturbing. The fact that someone, _anyone_ , would know him so well to predict his behavior up to the precise number of seconds he would spend hesitating, not to mention foresee his every move, was extremely unnerving.

He could still leave.

But then, Kirk would know he was here. He would ask Chapel, and she would tell him. Still, the door wasn't locked. He could simply walk out and dismiss whatever reaction this might elicit from Kirk as illogical, as well he should do. He should leave.

Spock turned his gaze inward, concentrating on the rising storm of emotions within his mind. Very well, he would accept the challenge. It was illogical, but it did seem unavoidable. He would have to address the matter of his own actions during his next meditation, but for now—for now he would put on the suit. In any case, the Captain could not force him to fight. He would put on the suit, if that was the only way to deal with yet another fluke of human irrationality, but that was as far as he would go. There had to be a line somewhere.

He took his blue tunic off and reached for the armor. The heavy plating was somewhat reminiscent of ancient cuirass, though far exceeded it in agility and comfort it provided the user with. However, no Starfleet officer in their right mind would have called zero-G combat gear a cozy thing to wear. Spock fastened the clasps, trying to reacquaint himself with the feeling of his weight being almost doubled. He was frowning still.

He tried to move in his usual manner, but the suit made him slower and less fluid in his motions, as he walked to the airlock. He stepped in and waited, while the environment was sealed. He felt the pressure dissipating and made a series of deep breaths, preparing himself for its complete disappearance. The cubicle rotated and opened, admitting him into the booth. Spock stepped in carefully, still fighting to acclimatize with total lack of gravity. He moved cautiously, aware that any abrupt motion would send him flying in some unpredictable trajectory.

Kirk was hovering some five meters above him, balancing with a combat staff in midair. He made a spectacular flip around his staff, moving as swiftly and precisely as ever.

"Fancy seeing you here, Mr. Spock," he dropped, never discontinuing his routine. "Pick up a staff."

"Captain, we need to talk."

"Yes. Pick up a staff and get up here," Kirk said, as if the Vulcan hadn't spoken.

"Captain," Spock's frown deepened. "I have no wish to take part in the exercise. I merely want to—"

"I'm getting tired of repeating myself, Mr. Spock. Pick up a staff."

Something in his tone rubbed Spock distinctly the wrong way. He tilted his chin up stubbornly.

"No."

That gave Kirk a pause. He glanced down, locking gazes with the Vulcan.

"No?" his eyebrows rose eloquently.

"No," Spock reiterated firmly.

"Then, get out," Kirk said flatly, changing position seamlessly. He was concentrating on his work-out again.

"Sir—"

"Commander, your own tactical analysis states that there are at least four worlds where we could be forced to fight in the zero-G environment, and I intend to get ready. So either pick up a staff, or get out of here. I will not have you distracting me."

"Captain—"

But Spock could tell there was no use. He knew this determined, set expression only too well. This was the face Kirk pulled on bluffing his way out with some Klingon commander. Only this time he wasn't bluffing. He was yet again making Spock choose.

The Vulcan closed his eyes briefly, being torn apart by his pride, advocating defiance, and his reason, telling him to shove the pride away and accept whatever conditions Jim demanded if it could help him achieve his goal. Anger was peppering the boiling mix of conflicting impulses ceaselessly.

Spock opened his eyes to find his hand closed around a staff in the hold. He reached out and released the lock. He was far from being pleased with himself at the moment. He could not explain even to himself why he had suddenly found it so difficult to concede to Jim's will. After all, Kirk was his Captain, and Spock had never had trouble accepting orders from him. Yet now, compliance was screaming defeat in his face, and he reset it carefully to devoid of any expression. He would not give Kirk the satisfaction of seeing him lose control.

The staff in his hand, he pushed off the deck with precisely measured force and began his ascend, using his shoulders and upper body to control his motion. Kirk watched his progress from above. When Spock came to an acceptable stop some five meters in front of him, he grinned at the Vulcan.

The grin was distinctly reminiscent of a sneer.

If Spock were human, he would have flinched, for the expression had reminded him forcibly of the transporter malfunction, which had split the Captain in two halves. The James Kirk looking at him now was far from being split. His face was composed carefully, lips parted casually in an easy grin, but his eyes left no room for speculation as to which part of him was reigning this ball. Soft light-brown was extinguished almost entirely from his eyes, making them greenish-grey to the point of black. Spock's own words came back to him as an echo.

' _...his evil side... which you call hostility, lust, violence...'_

That was when it struck him. This was a mistake. A colossal, catastrophic mistake. He was here, where Jim wanted him, and in the exact way he wanted him. Step by step, he let himself be lured into a trap, and now—now nothing which would ensue would be under his control. Nothing at all.

"Your balance is off," Kirk remarked, levitating in a would-be relaxed position, watching him.

Spock glanced at him darkly, proceeding with his warm-up sequence. His balance was off, no denying that. Just not the balance required for the physical exercise.

"What was it you wanted to talk to me about?" Kirk asked lamely, his eyes following Spock's every motion diligently.

Spock refused to be distracted by this calculating scrutiny.

"Your decision to lead the reconnaissance mission."

Kirk raised his eyebrows in a not very convincing surprise.

"Something wrong with my decision?"

Spock made a quick flip, then stretched, testing the new limitations the armor and the weightlessness were imposing on his movements.

"This mission does not require captain's personal supervision."

"Doesn't it really?" in the same lazy tone.

Spock turned over, using his staff for leverage, and met his eyes.

"We have agreed that Mr. Sulu should lead the mission."

"I changed my mind," Kirk explained, soft triumph kindling in his eyes. "Captain's prerogative."

That struck home.

"I do not recall indulging one's whims to be listed among command prerogatives."

" _Indulging one's whims_?" The lazy tone was gone. This was pure fury. "I think you're out of line, Mister."

And before Spock knew it, he was attacked.

It was a swift and brutal assault. Spock lifted his staff automatically to block the blow and almost succeeded, but the human was far from being done. As the borrowed inertia was carrying Spock away, Kirk made a quick change of grip on his staff and directed it flawlessly to hit Spock's side.

Fighting to stop his rotation, Spock glanced up at him sharply.

The blow was aimed at his heart.

Throughout his life, and especially his years in Starfleet, Spock had been in enough fights and hand-to-hand struggles of every kind to know when his opponent meant business. Kirk did. The blow was far beyond training safety parameters. This was not a prelude to a friendly sparring match. This was a first blow in a real fight. The Captain was a highly experienced combater.

This was no accident.

"If you wish to leave, Spock," Kirk intoned as if reading his mind, "you may."

Spock gripped his staff firmer.

 _He is provoking you_ , his logical, rational mind told him, appealing to his reason.

 _Yes_ , the savage, undisciplined, brutal part of him that would have done well on pre-Reform Vulcan sang exultantly, _And he is succeeding!_

His counterattack resulted in a series of professionally executed hits and blocks before the inertia had thrown them apart once more.

"What reason do you have to lead this mission?" Spock asked, 'walking' up to assume a better position.

Before he was there, however, Kirk was below him, trying to reach his legs with his staff.

"I don't have to explain my reasons to my subordinates."

Spock made a double flip, descending to his level, aiming to strike Kirk in the chest.

"I believe you have no reasons to give. Other than your constant irrational desire to put yourself in harm's way, which is bordering on obsession."

Kirk evaded the blow, caught Spock's staff and pulled him roughly towards himself.

"Careful, Commander," Kirk growled, trying to complete the lock by placing his staff at the back of Spock's neck. "For a moment there, it almost sounded as if you cared."

Spock was faster. He leaned back to evade the lock, swiftly tugging his knees to his chest and striking out with his feet to hit Kirk in the belly hard. The move sent him somersaulting to the ceiling, and Kirk spiraling down.

Chapel's voice suddenly sounded over the intercom. She was advising them to slow down. Neither man paid her the slightest attention.

Spock zeroed in on Kirk, face set in concentration.

"I am concerned," he offered between another exchange of blows, "for the outcome of this mission."

Kirk laughed out loud, throwing his head back. The distraction cost him. The end of Spock's staff slid across his face. The next moment Spock was mesmerized by the surreal image of Kirk's face seen through a veil of miniscule red droplets floating in the air between them. _That_ distraction cost him. Kirk's staff hit him in the chest so hard that he collided with the opposite wall, wind knocked out of him.

"You're a liar!" Kirk snarled, wiping his cut lip with the back of his hand, as Spock struggled to breathe. "And a cheat. You can't even be honest with yourself!"

Spock managed to straighten up to respond to the new attack. "And what is it, you believe, I am lying to myself about?"

"The reason for your sudden concern, Spock. I don't remember you giving a damn about what I was doing for an odd number of days now," Kirk hissed, trying to reach him again. "Aren't you taking my decision a little bit too personally?"

Spock blocked. And blocked. And blocked! Why was it that he was constantly the defendant here?

"I am merely expressing a legitimate concern for the safety of the Captain."

"How about _my_ safety, Spock? Aren't you the tiniest bit concerned about _me_?"

"An illogical question, since you are the Captain."

"And you're comfortable to hide behind this?"

"I am not hiding behind anything."

Spock heard vaguely Chapel's urgent voice coming from below. He couldn't even distinguish the words. He was now feeling the wall behind his back. His head was an inch from bumping into the ceiling. Kirk had cornered him masterfully. The human held Spock's staff captive with his legs and pressed an arm to Spock's throat hard enough to get the message through. He was glaring at the Vulcan with an expectant air.

"What would you have me say?" Spock asked coolly, slightly out of breath. For a Vulcan, it was monumental.

"I want you to be honest about your motives," Kirk was breathing heavily. "I'm through being the only one who cares. I want you to admit your real reasons for being so pissed or stop pretending that you give a damn! So far I haven't heard anything that would make me reconsider going on this mission."

So these were his options. It wasn't anger so much, as it was the core, basic instinct of a cornered animal that made him reach for his strength and agility and push Kirk away, weaseling out of his grip.

"I will not be blackmailed into compromising your safety," Spock raised his voice, barely controlling himself. "If I have to contact Starfleet Command to stop you, I will."

He tried to descend back to the deck, but was intercepted midway.

"So this is how you prefer to do things," Kirk hissed in his face, knocking the staff out of Spock's hand. "Your precious Vulcan decorum is so dear to you that you'd rather go call some admiral instead of dropping it? Are you that scared of what it would reveal?" he was delivering blow after blow with precise triangulation, and Spock only managed to block one of each three. "Now I know why you won't accept a command of your own—you've gotta have some integrity for that! Call whomever you wish, but what makes you think Starfleet Command is going to listen to the words of a coward?"

Spock's control, precarious as it was already, snapped like a soap bubble. With a low growl, he intercepted Kirk's staff and jerked it towards himself, snapping it in two before he even realized what he was doing. The momentary shock—the staff was made of pure duranium—barely registered on Kirk's face, before he was swept away from his position by a powerful blow.

Kirk barely managed to turn his face to his side in time for it not to be squashed, as he smashed into the wall, followed swiftly by Spock's considerable weight. The world went dark for Kirk, as they collided. He was damn sure he had a couple of fractured ribs, if the searing pain in his chest was any indication.

"Is that what you want from me, Jim?" Spock's voice in his ear was rough and low. "Is that what you want me to acknowledge—that I can hurt you? If you think for one moment I am incapable of it, you are grossly mistaken."

And, as if the current level of pain was not proof enough, he reached to grab both Kirk's arms and pulled them abruptly behind the human's back by the elbows, putting additional strain to the abused ribcage in one swift motion. Still dazed by the force of collision, Kirk cried out at the unexpected pain. The monster that took hold of Spock's reactions reveled in the sound. He tried to tame it.

"I _can_ hurt you, Jim," Spock reiterated pointedly with grim satisfaction. "Don't push me further, or I will."

"Is that the best you can do, Spock?" Kirk forced the words out, as his mind searched for means of escape. "To scare me into doing what you want?"

"I want you not to take the unwarranted risk of this mission, nothing else."

"Too bad," Kirk muttered, as his feet had found their 'ground'. He 'walked' the wall up, making Spock relinquish his hold rather brutally. His own body screamed in agony, but he ignored it. "I'm going."

He let the motion turn him over. He was fast. All Spock managed to do was twist around as Kirk's hands locked on his shoulders, aiming to knock him over. Spock tried to counteract the move, and for several moments they remained glued together, both fuming with effort.

"You have to—understand one thing—Spock," Kirk panted through gritted teeth. "You may fight me—here. You might even—beat me. But I am—the Captain. You—are subject—to my orders. You will—obey. It is—inevitable."

Spock's eyes glinted.

"Then, why don't you order me to surrender?"

The moment the words were out of his mouth, both froze. Shock numbed all sensations, wiping them out of their minds, as they stared at each other in mortified astonishment. Their bodies were still locked together, but neither one moved.

The shattering realization drained the frenzy.

 _Would I_ _?_

Kirk breathed out a soft moan, seeing, with gut-wrenching clarity, the reflection of the very same question in the astounded brown eyes. The moment both realized it, the question had simultaneously changed.

 _Would_ _you?_

If either of them were even breathing, neither knew. It was a moment out of time and realm, as if two lives worthy of experiences had only existed to bring them unmistakably to this instant, this pause in the universe's spin. A halt between two beats of a heart. Two hearts that never shared the same rhythm, that couldn't share the same rhythm, were now sharing this moment of absolute stillness, as if it was the most natural thing in the universe.

Two questions, which were in truth only one. Marking the Rubicon, which they never should have crossed. But they had, and now there was no turning back. Behind them was not a completely innocent or peaceful but familiar terrain. Before them was an uncharted territory, and both were hesitant to make the first step.

And that was when Spock had noticed something else.

Kirk's arms, pressed against his own, were getting heavier. Kirk must have felt it, too, for he glanced down at his body reflexively.

"Captain..." Spock muttered warily.

Kirk looked up at him. "You don't think she—?"

"She did," Spock almost groaned, as the pressure became much more noticeable, increasing the rate of their descent.

Quickly, they let go of each other. The gravity was growing faster, than they could adapt, and they were still some good two meters above the deck, when it rose to ship's normal in a jolt.

They slumped onto the deck clumsily, the added weight of their armor making the landing much more rapid and forceful. Neither was able to stay standing. Kirk landed on his backside and Spock on his knees. The Captain groaned loudly, as his ribs reacted vehemently to such brutal treatment. Behind them, three pieces of metal hit the deck with a loud clang.

The side door slid open, and Christine Chapel came in on the run, stopping short in front of them, her face flushed with anxiety and indignation.

"That was—hardly—subtle, Nurse," Kirk managed, trying to make sure his legs weren't broken. Apparently they weren't, but hurt quite convincingly.

"I warned you," she panted, looking from one to the other, "I warned you. Why wouldn't you listen? You could have killed each other!"

"Really, Nurse," Spock raised an eyebrow at her. He wasn't in his best shape, either. "We were only practicing."

"Yes, we'll practice now and save the killing for later," Kirk said. He was cringing in pain as he tried to assume a more dignified position.

Spock glanced sideways at him, his expression unreadable.

But Chapel was far from being appeased. She still breathed heavily, like an angry dragon. The fire was about to jet off her lips at any moment.

"I have never seen such irresponsible behavior!" she advanced on Kirk, who looked distinctly alarmed. "You've got three broken ribs and God only knows what else! And you!" she rounded on Spock abruptly, making him fight the impulse to jerk back. "I never saw you acting so—so—so _irrationally_! Playing with life, as if what we face everyday is not enough! Could have gotten seriously injured! The Captain _and_ the First Officer! A nice example you set for the crew!"

It didn't look like she was going to stop for air any time soon. Kirk and Spock exchanged an uneasy glance.

"Nurse—" the Captain tried bravely.

"I don't want to hear it!" she snapped, and he raised a hand in the air as if saying, 'My mistake.' "Get out of these things and get to Sick Bay, both of you! If you're not ready in two minutes, I'll haul you down there myself!"

With that final blast, she spun on her heel and left, apparently to make preparations, or simply unable to fight the urge to knock their heads together any longer.

"You think we scared her?" Kirk asked thoughtfully, staring after her. He had the grace to look a little guilty.

"It would appear that way," Spock replied, getting to his feet slowly. He was favoring about every part of his body, as he moved towards Kirk. "Ms. Chapel is a very impressionable woman," he mused, helping the Captain out of his shoulder plate.

Kirk winced, but nodded gratefully. He extended a hand, letting Spock lift him carefully to his feet.

"Will you be able to walk on your own?" Spock asked, in no great hurry to let go.

Kirk grinned at him somewhat indulgingly.

"Don't flatter yourself, Mr. Spock, you're not that good. I'll be fine. You?"

Spock reached to unfasten his own armor.

"You are not 'that good' either, Captain."

"Hm," Kirk intoned dubiously.

His gaze fell upon two pieces of the broken staff. Spock followed his glance and looked away quickly, refraining from comments. After a moment of silence, filled only with soft sounds of the pieces of armor being removed, Kirk spoke softly.

"I'm going on this mission, Spock. Unless you give me a very good reason why I shouldn't."

Spock straightened up and met his eyes squarely. The look in Jim's eyes could have melted a heart of stone. It was honest, completely open, and so very, very vulnerable. Spock knew what he wanted to hear. It wasn't that he would be lying if he said it. Quite the contrary, but the whole truth would be way more than Jim was asking for.

He could say it.

In another place, at another time. In some universe, where there was no Starfleet Command, no regulations, no Sudak, no Shari Tcha'kla. In some universe, where he wouldn't have to protect Jim from himself, should the truth be known. In this universe, he had to choose—yet again—the lesser of two evils. If Jim insisted on risking his life on this mission, Spock would have to let him. This mission was just one occurrence. The alternative meant a lifetime of being at much greater risk. A simple equation.

Why didn't it feel so simple?

Jim was still waiting, hardly breathing and watching him so very intently. It almost felt like hitting a child.

"I ask you not to go," Spock said quietly. "I cannot give you another reason. I'm sorry."

Kirk nodded, looking away briefly.

"I'm sorry, too, Spock. But that's not good enough anymore."

He turned and walked out of the booth into the corridor where Chapel was waiting. He didn't glance back once, and Spock didn't blame him. He packed the gear carefully, giving himself the resort of a simple task.

 _So it begins_ , he mused gravely. And only time could tell how it would end.


	19. The Boomerang Effect

McCoy was looking at the data padd gloomily. It was his third attempt to redesign the timetable for his proposals to Starfleet Medical, but so far he didn't have any luck. He sighed, rubbing his forehead unconsciously. He could not remember the last time he had slept properly. Or eaten, for that matter. He wondered briefly if he had reached the point of obsession yet. The psychologist in him told him he was dangerously close to the breaking point.

It was cat and mouse game. He sent out the proposal. They sent back ten reasons why it was unacceptable. He made corrections and sent it on again. They sent him another ten reasons. On and on it went, and if he wasn't too much off with his count, they were now entering round five.

It was no use and he knew it. Not while Leland was the one making the decision. McCoy frowned, feeling a tremendous headache closing in on him fast. He told Jim that Leland was a bigot and an asshole. What he didn't tell him, what he didn't think he could ever tell anyone, was that this peculiar attitude had very little to do with Starfleet standing policies, nonhumans and their status, or even budget aspects.

What it did have everything to do with was Leonard Horatio McCoy.

It was true that John Leland had little love for nonhuman species, but his dislike was limited to personal life. He was a Starfleet officer, he was a professional. And it would have been difficult for him in any case to stay completely opposed to other members of the Federation after his nephew became engaged to a Bolian. And he was an asshole, yes, but not the kind one would wish to never meet in a bar fight. He was not very bright, but he was harmless. At least he used to be.

 _They were never exactly friends. They knew each other from way back, when both were stationed in Atlanta. McCoy was a student at the medical school. John was majoring in law. They never used to have much in common, except sharing the liking of the same bar. An occasional 'hello—still kicking?' was an effective sum up of their conversations. That was until the day_ _John had come to the bar with his little sister._

 _Jocelyn._

 _If asked to name the deepest crush of his life, McCoy didn't have to search for any other. Tall, lanky, with amazing crystal-grey eyes, reminiscent of a frozen lake, she rarely smiled, but surveyed her surroundings with a mesmerizing unblinking look, as if challenging the world to surprise her. She was smarter than her brother, in fact, she was smarter than half of the law students in her year and upper. She was not one for subtle details. Her manner was reserved but straightforward, and when she said something she meant it. To say that McCoy was smitten with this kaleidoscopic combination would have been a huge understatement._

 _He had never found out what she did find interesting in him to accept his invitation, but she did. It was a bizarre evening, with him doing all the talking and her listening, nodding once or twice, hardly more. By the end of the date, when he had completely run out of topics and felt desperate to elicit any kind of reaction, he was certain that he had made a complete fool of himself and would never see her again. But the next morning had found them in the same bed. Years later, McCoy could never explain how it had happened._

 _They started seeing each other regularly, and it wasn't long till she informed him of the intended wedding day. Mildly dazed by the rapidity of events, still almost unable to believe that he was chosen by the girl, who was an object of desire of the entire university, Leonard didn't object. He was marrying the woman of his dreams, he had a glowing career ahead of him, drawing closer as the graduation day neared. If he wasn't feeling happy, he supposed it was only for the lack of time. He literally barely had time to breathe._

 _John remained at the periphery of his vision. He obviously adored his sister too much to interfere with her decisions. It wasn't till the wedding that he made certain McCoy was aware of his presence. Shortly before the ceremony, he drew Leonard aside._

' _You don't deserve to breathe the same air as her, but she chose you, so I'm not going to say anything. But if she complains, even once, McCoy—you're gonna regret it.'_

 _It was later that McCoy had realized the whole truth. John Leland loved his sister so much that he had fallen in love with her. From the moment of her birth, she became one single focus of his entire existence. It wasn't long before he was stealing sweets for her from the kitchen. Getting his first pocket money, he spent it on a new hair-band for her. He stood guard while she sneaked through her window to go to a late-night party with her friends. He was blindfolded with fury when he saw her being kissed fiercely by the Parisses Squares team captain. She decided to become a lawyer, and so he, too, went for the same field, for which he had neither talent, nor inclination. That was a small price to pay for being near her._

 _Not that she wanted his presence or even took any notice of it. Jocelyn was as self-centered a person as one could get. She focused on a goal, whatever it might have been, with unwavering determination of a torpedo. By the time she and McCoy had met, this goal was to establish an exemplary family. And John didn't fit into this equation. Even if he wasn't her brother, she would never have chosen one like him, and he knew it. He was a quintessence of mediocrity, neither brilliant nor dense, extraordinary at nothing, generally passing in everything._

 _What was it exactly that made McCoy worthy of her attention, neither of them ever knew. He was a gifted student, but so were two thirds of his classmates. He wasn't bad looking, but Jocelyn was not particularly interested in looks as far as he could tell. From what he figured out many years later, when it was too late to try and fix any of it, he was a seemingly ideal candidate for the well-defined, precisely measured life that she wanted. His professors spoke highly of him, but he wasn't suspected of being capable of setting any kind of river on fire. In her eyes, he had all the makings of an ideal addition to the décor of her life._

 _At first it looked like he was fulfilling his function admirably. Five months into their marriage, Joanna was born. Leonard, who had barely had anytime to sleep between writing his thesis and his internship, had lost what little time for himself he had left. Jocelyn wasn't very good at handling babies. She did all the right things, but Joanna kept crying in her arms, whenever she took her. For the first time ever, McCoy had seen glimpses of frustration on his wife's face. This was a challenge she couldn't solve by sheer force of will._

 _Regardless of the physical and emotional strain, those years were happy years. Jocelyn, who had taken a long sabbatical so that Leonard could finish his studies, had a remarkable talent of turning even the cheapest of apartments they had rented into a place he wished to return to every night. She looked after her husband with devotion and care. And his baby-girl was a sweet tranquil joy in his life. Yes, McCoy thought reminiscently, those were happy years._

 _The change was sudden and striking, as was the war that provoked it. Shortly after the day when Leonard had finally received his medical license, and they had begun to study enchanting options of their new existence, the war broke with the Kzinti, and then, almost simultaneously, with the Klingons. Earth started to resemble a boiling pot. Starfleet was pulling all experienced personnel from whatever assignments they had had at the moment to send them to the front line. Meanwhile, Starfleet Headquarters was drowning in requests from volunteers._

 _War was never a good time to receive education. There was never enough time. Hastily, Starfleet had organized extern courses to give the applicants some basic training. This was an extreme measure, but so were the times. McCoy had too many friends fighting already. He deemed it his duty to volunteer as well. He was ready to enlist as a field medic, but fortunately for him, the personnel officer on duty checked his credentials thoroughly and directed him to the prolonged two-year preparation course. It existed outside the immediate emergency and was specifically designed to convert qualified personnel into officers._

 _McCoy tried to object. It was hard to accept the delay, when the Federation was fighting at two fronts. The personnel officer was adamant._

' _We do not hammer nails with microscopes,_ Doctor _. The situation is not that desperate. You are an M.D. I will be court-martialed if I send you as canon meat to the front line.'_

 _Grumpily, reluctantly, with many vocal objections, McCoy had agreed._

 _Jocelyn was beside herself. For the first time, he had seen her losing her temper. She tried to reason with him. He was not a military man, she had said. He would never understand military mentality or military discipline. She had pointed out that he would graduate as a full lieutenant. As an officer, he would be expected not only to follow orders, but to give them, and sometimes those orders would get other people hurt or killed. 'Are you ready to accept that?'_

 _When reason didn't work, she resorted to emotions._

' _What about me?' she asked. 'What about Joanna? We are your family. What are we supposed to do, while you gallop across the galaxy fighting some trigger-happy freaks? You hardly spent a week with your daughter in three years as it is.'_

' _You don't understand. I'm doing this for her.'_

' _No,' she said. 'You're doing this for you.'_

 _They moved to San Francisco. Jocelyn had clearly believed that military training would make her argument for her. She had said as much, pointing out her brother._

' _Starfleet is for those who don't have enough brain to know how to make a life for themselves.'_

 _John Leland was a fitting example indeed. He had applied for full four-year command training and was admitted. Apparently, he did have one unsurpassed skill after all. Uploaded with regulations, he could recite them night and day, in any condition. His extreme stubbornness was transformed into determination, and his lack of imagination was exactly the key factor to make him a perfect executive officer._

 _It so happened that they had shared a lot of classes. Being an M.D. already, McCoy had only attended several special courses at Starfleet Medical and spent most of his time familiarizing himself with starship operations and procedures. He was obliged to study weaponry and hand-to-hand combat—the course, which he had found rather brutal. Nobody intended to use doctors for assault teams, but every Starfleet officer had to learn to defend themselves and, if necessary, the civilians. McCoy gritted his teeth every time he entered the gym, but he was determined to pass, despite being the instructor's favorite punching bag._

 _Engineering was lost on him, apart from the obligatory basic course, but, to his utter surprise, he easily qualified for command training. Trying to make heads and tails of strategies and tactics, he asked himself again and again why anyone would want to label him of all people 'command material'. He was abysmal at it. But, despite his continuous struggle with different ways of causing people harm, one instructor after another had confirmed his suitability for command. As a result, he was not allowed to drop the course after covering the basics. McCoy had forsaken the very idea of ever understanding this and simply complied._

 _Every time he and Leland were in the same class, McCoy felt uneasy. As a doctor, who attended the Academy for requalification, and as a doctor with a family, McCoy was assigned quarters in Starfleet residence hotel, normally reserved for officers. John Leland was a frequent guest there. In fact, he was far more familiar with those quarters than McCoy himself, for his schedule was much more lenient. It wasn't long till McCoy began to feel awkward and then absolutely alien in this temporary home._

 _Life was full of cruel irony. Three months before his graduation, the Federation had signed a peace treaty with the Kzinti. In another month, a ceasefire with the Klingons was achieved. There was no immediate reason for him anymore to go into space. But the truth was that by that time he had nowhere else to go. He and Jocelyn rarely had even two words to say to each other, and when they did, both were hardly civil._

' _Last chance, Leonard,' she said when the news of the peace treaty broke. She had always called him Leonard, never resorting to any nicknames or endearings. 'I have renewed my lawyer's license. They offered me a position in Lunaport. It's a good one, and I'm going to take it. I'm asking you for the last time, come with me. There's a huge medical facility there, I'm sure you can make yourself useful.'_

' _I can't,' he said. 'This isn't about war and peace anymore. This is about duty. My duty. There are certain things men have to do to remain men. Anyone can be a doctor in Lunaport. Starfleet had gone to one hell of a lot of trouble to make me an officer, and, surprising as it is, they have succeeded.'_

' _Oh please! You're an officer and what else? Supreme ruler of the universe? Get down to earth, Leonard! John says you're abysmal at following orders, and God help those unfortunate who will be subject to yours!'_

' _They need me, Jocelyn. You think things automatically go back to normal once the war is over? There're dozens of colonies there in desperate situation. Ships are now being reassigned to those quadrants, and my place is on one of them. I can help those people.'_

' _How about helping us?' she hissed. 'How about raising your own daughter?'_

' _I will always take care of Joanna.'_

' _It's not money I'm talking about, Leonard! She hardly even sees you anymore! They had another Father's Day at school last week, as I'm sure you_ don't _know! Thank God, they didn't ask her to draw a portrait of you, or she would have had to imagine something! She won the contest for the best essay on 'Who I Want to Be', which I'm certain you don't know either."_

' _Who did she say she wanted to be?' he asked quietly._

 _She pursed her lips and looked away, fighting her biting frustration._

' _A doctor,' she snapped finally. 'Like her Daddy.'_

 _McCoy closed his eyes._

' _I can't stay, Joe. I wish I could. But you and I—it won't work out. Joanna won't be happy watching us fight every night.'_

' _We don't have to fight.'_

' _Holy hell, Joe! We can't stay in the same room for two minutes without starting a fight! We never could, even before I joined Starfleet. Our marriage isn't going to work. The only reason why you can't accept it is because it would mean that you've made a mistake with me! Face it, Jocelyn: You picked the wrong guy!'_

 _She stared at him furiously for an indefinite moment, then lowered her eyes and nodded._

' _You were the first mistake I'_ _ve ever made,' she said quietly. 'You were already married, to your Hippocratic Oath, before I even met you. I thought I could make you change your priorities. I thought I could change you into a better man. But you're a rover and always will be. Unteachable. Go on, we'll be better off without you.'_

That was the last time he had seen Jocelyn in person. When he returned to their quarters the next night, both she and Joanna were gone. He was relieved to be free from Jocelyn, but the loss of Joanna was twisting his guts in tight knots. If only he could have taken her with him! But a starship was no place for a child, and a starship going into the war zone even less so. For a thousand times that night, as well as the next night, and the next, he had asked himself if he was doing the right thing. It would be better for her, he thought bitterly. This way she wouldn't have to be a witness, day after day, of exactly how much her parents hated each other. But not to see her smile at him again, or have her hug him, or tell him about her dream—this was close to an eternal torment.

He had told Jocelyn, he had told himself, that it was duty pushing him into space. But the truth was, he had another incentive as well. Hard as he had tried, he could not envision himself living the life she was forcing him into. He liked to repeat that he was just a country doctor, but in point of fact he was anything but. He was not born for quiet, idle, comfortable life. The stress that would have broken nine out of ten men, would only serve to bring the best out of him. That was what his instructors had seen in him, and what he had finally started to realize himself.

The strangest, though in retrospect expected, thing was John Leland's reaction. He had never forgiven McCoy for ruining his sister's life. The fact that the said life was hardly ruined did little to appease him. Indeed, Jocelyn remarried shortly after McCoy's ship had reached its designated coordinates. As soon as the communications blackout was lifted, he had received the news—along with the divorce papers. Last he heard, she had two kids and the house she had always dreamed about. But, for Leland, this was obviously not good enough.

McCoy looked at the communiqué from the Admiral gloomily. It was marked personal and had come bypassing the official channels. Obviously, Leland had learnt a trick or two rising through the ranks. His promotion was still brand new, but he had finally achieved a position of power over his old enemy.

' _I will not have you disrupting more families 'for the greater good'. I see no need to rush just to fit that crazy schedule of yours. Your precious aliens can wait for five years, while we do things reasonabl_ _y and with due consideration. I will not help you destroy more households to support your outrages ambitions.'_

He wouldn't budge. McCoy knew it. He failed to see it at first. After all, the story was almost twenty years old now. But apparently there were some wounds that never healed. He was seeing it clearly now and was devastated. There was no way around it. Leland was a terrific administrator. He would not be removed from his position, unless he committed some grievous crime, which seemed unlikely. And as long as he would be occupying that chair, McCoy could discover a cure for Tellurian plague or win both Nobel and Z. Magnees Prizes, and still not have his initiative through.

And that was why he was so little forthcoming when Spock had offered to help. This was the reason why he never wished for Jim to get involved in this. Jim would bring out into the open all the ugly truth, and that was the last thing McCoy wanted. He felt angry and frustrated at the sheer stupidity and injustice of Leland's actions, but he couldn't help but feel guilty before him as well. He couldn't explain it to himself even. He knew that if Jim got any wind of this, he would be adamant in defending McCoy. The Doctor could even predict his arguments. It wasn't like he hadn't raised them himself at one point or another. But he didn't want any of it. He didn't want Jim to fight for him. He didn't want anyone to get involved. He simply wanted the past to remain the past.

The problem was the past seemed to have finally caught up with him.

Spock would probably tell him he was being illogical. McCoy felt a momentary surge of irritation, but dismissed it quickly with a shake of his head. He was being unfair. Spock would quite probably understand, perhaps better than anyone. Whatever their relationship had been when it had formed, whatever it was now, whatever it might have become if the stars had turned the right way, Spock was first and foremost his friend. And if McCoy had learnt anything about Vulcan friendship in general and Spock's private brand of it in particular, it was that it was nothing if not completely selfless.

The thought of Spock made him frown. He pushed the padd with the Admiral's communiqué aside, and concentrated on another one. His frown deepened.

They said there was a first time for everything. It was the first time he had seen Spock's personal efficiency rating sinking this low. Eighty-two percent, barely above acceptable. For Spock, this was extraordinary. In all the years McCoy had known him, his efficiency barely deviated from his average unbreakable record of ninety-nine to one hundred percent. For anyone else, it would have been impossible, but for this Vulcan it was the norm.

When the Doctor had first pulled his recent rating, he had to double check that it did belong to Spock. Confirming this, McCoy had pulled his physical assessment feverishly. According to it, Spock was perfectly healthy. No chemical imbalances, no sign of pathology of any kind, no trauma. McCoy felt instantly relieved and almost at once extremely worried again. If his physical health was not an issue in this dramatic development, it could only mean one thing.

There was something on Spock's mind.

Something quite unprecedented to cause this kind of damage. Spock must be noticing it, too, but he was obviously once again in no great hurry to enlighten anyone as to what was happening. Fighting down his anger—this was, after all, nothing new—McCoy's first impulse was to seek out Jim. But the Captain had departed with Sulu on a reconnaissance mission and was, therefore unavailable.

His absence made McCoy pull out his records as well, but Jim was fine. In his efficiency, that was. It was his physical condition that worried McCoy, and his recently broken and mended ribs had nothing to do with it.

The entire incident in the zero-G booth had left McCoy itching to give them both the lecture they deserved. It surely wasn't the first time they had a disagreement, but never before had they descended to a brawl. It didn't take a genius, only an unusually perceptive ship's doctor to know what triggered it. But a shouting match in Sick Bay could only add fuel to the flames and bring up some questions neither was ready to answer.

So McCoy cursed a lot in his office, figuring out a way to make an entry into his medical log which would not subject either of them to the possibility of a court-martial. The exercise left him with a progressing headache and a renewed wish to cause them both more severe injuries, if only verbally, but he was pretty sure Nurse Chapel had already covered most of that ground. Besides, Jim was gone before he had his chance, and Spock...

The Vulcan might have appeared as stoic as ever, but McCoy was one of the few trained observers he couldn't fool. If the Doctor was asked to describe Spock's state of mind based on what he was seeing, he would have resorted to two words only.

Quiet panic.

One look at Spock's face made McCoy instantly forget whatever he intended to say. He wanted to ask Spock what had happened, and couldn't. Not that Spock would have told him anyway. He wanted then to make some sort of teasing remark to provoke another round of their usual banter to gather some clues, and found he couldn't do that either. All he could do in the end was leave the Vulcan alone, hoping against hope that it all would somehow be all right again.

It was ironic, come to think of it. Here, on the _Enterprise_ , surrounded by the best friends he had ever had, friends who were suspiciously close to becoming family, McCoy had suddenly felt more alone than ever. He couldn't talk to Jim and he wouldn't bother Spock. It was the stupidest occurrence. The three of them needed each other so badly at this moment, but were unable to reach out. Instead they each remained keeping dark in their private jails, locked up from the inside.

It was so quiet down here, McCoy reflected. He couldn't hear a sound, hard as he had tried.

Graveyard silence.

For a moment, he did feel like a ghost haunting some long forsaken place. A lonely soul, abandoned and forgotten.

The door opened suddenly, making him jump. Christine Chapel stepped inside cautiously.

"You could have buzzed, Nurse," McCoy snapped more sharply than he intended.

She merely shrugged.

"Why is it so dark in here?" she asked, walking over to him and placing a steaming cup in front of him. "I thought you could use some tea."

He sniffed over the cup suspiciously. "Camomile?"

"You need to relax a little," she offered, eyeing him critically. "You've been sitting here staring at those reports for nine hours. You do know there's still a ship out there, don't you?"

"I had a vague impression."

"Really, Doctor. Your staff hasn't even seen you for three days. It's like you've turned into an Opera Ghost or something. Always lurking in the dark, scheming, scheming."

"An Opera Ghost?" he raised his eyebrows at her, taking a sip of tea. "Now, you and Spock had better stop this supernatural com—"

He fell silent midword, staring at her as if seeing her for the first time.

"Doctor?"

"I'll be damned," he muttered. "Your name is _Christine_!"

He began to laugh, nearly spilling his tea. Chapel was looking at him warily, startled and confused, until it finally clicked. She laughed softly and shook her head.

"Just my kind of luck," he said. His eyes were twinkling with irony. "That _you_ should come in here, while I was thinking—"

"Don't get any ideas," she told him with feigned strictness. "You are _not_ setting this place on fire."

"No, I suppose not," he sighed, still grinning. "That's still some thought, though. Thank you for the tea, Nurse."

"You're welcome," she smiled and brushed his hand lightly before turning to leave.

He was alone again, yet feeling slightly better. Between the ghosts of the past and the shadows of the present, there was still some future to be born. At the very least, it was worth a try.


	20. Fallen Gods

Chekov stood in front of the closed door, hesitating. He smiled nervously at the passing crewmembers. Tugged his shirt down once. Twice. Tried to flatten his bangs. Licked his lips. Finally, he took a deep breath and lifted his hand to the buzzer... only to lower it again. This was excruciating.

"Might I open the door for you, Ensign?"

Chekov jumped, whirling around.

"Sir, I was just—I was..."

"Come in," Giotto said, pressing the lock to open.

Swallowing hard, Chekov stepped into the Security Chief's office.

"Have a seat, Mr. Chekov," Giotto invited cordially, getting comfortable behind his desk.

"Thank you, sir. I prefer standing," Chekov stammered.

Giotto glanced at him sharply.

"This might take a while," he intoned with deliberate lameness.

"Still, I—"

"Sit down."

"Yes, sir."

He sat down cautiously, on the very edge of the chair, in a physical manifestation of the 'fight or flight' syndrome. Giotto kept his smile to himself.

"There's no need to be so nervous, Ensign. You're not here for a reprimand."

"Yes, sir. I mean—"

"Would you like a drink?"

"I—" Chekov clearly was confused. "I don't think it'll be appropriate, sir."

"Good for you," Giotto nodded his approval. "Never drink while on duty."

"I thought Security officers were always on duty."

"That's why we don't drink."

With that, Giotto opened the small cabinet to his left and took out a peculiar looking bottle. It had obviously been opened some time ago, for about a third of the liquid was gone. Giotto put it on the desk, as if inviting Chekov to examine it.

The Ensign picked up the bottle carefully and studied it.

"Rémy Martin VSOP," he read somewhat uncertainly and glanced up at Giotto in surprise. "2237, sir? This bottle is older than I am."

Giotto grinned dryly.

"Well, you know what they say, Ensign. One can never draw good cognac too long. My father gave me this bottle twenty-five years ago, as I got my first promotion."

"You kept this bottle for twenty-five years?" Chekov stared at him incredulously.

Giotto smiled his thin smile, as he poured himself a portion of the amber liquid. It was somewhat thick.

"And this is the only alcohol I've had ever since. Only opened this bottle when I had something to celebrate."

Chekov stared at the bottle with a sense of newfound awe and terror.

"What are you celebrating now, sir?" he asked warily.

It was somehow unnerving to watch Giotto in this strange would-be relaxed mood. Especially, when Chekov had given him every reason to be displeased.

"A great deal," the Security Chief smiled again. His face was clearly unaccustomed to this exercise, and the smile looked strained. "I have just received a follow-up to my report from Starfleet Command."

"Good news, sir?"

"It does look that way, doesn't it? I'm being promoted."

"Congratulations!" Chekov's face lightened up instantly in relief, before he caught himself. He had half-expected Giotto to announce that the unfortunate Ensign had earned himself a year in a penal colony. "What is your new position, sir?"

Giotto pursed his lips; his fingers rimming the glass tightened mildly.

"Senior Security Advisor to the Chief of Operations on Starbase 21."

It took Chekov a moment to process this.

"That sounds like an important post, sir."

"It's a desk job!" Giotto's tone rose only slightly, but it was more than enough to make Chekov flinch. But decades of holding himself in check at all times were hard to disregard. The Commander continued more calmly. "Apparently, Starfleet Command believes that I've become too old for field duty. I knew they had some doubts, but hoped they would reconsider. However, this recent incident had convinced them that I'm no good. After all, I couldn't find one single person on my own ship for almost a week."

"Commander..." Chekov looked devastated. His palms were suddenly wet with sweat. He had to swallow before he could speak again. "I am very sorry... I never meant... I..."

"There's no need to apologize, Ensign," Giotto looked up at him, his eyes twinkling. With mirth or malice, Chekov couldn't tell. "They don't know, after all, that half the crew was helping you to evade the search. Including our most senior officers. I didn't report them, obviously," he explained elaborately. "Even if I wanted to, who'd believe me? No proof."

"You—would have—reported them?" Chekov couldn't hide his shock. Only now did he begin to realize the scale of trouble he had almost gotten a lot of people into. Obviously he had underestimated his crewmates... or their opinion of him.

"No, I wouldn't," Giotto dropped flatly. "It's not what Security officers do, Mr. Chekov. We don't seek someone to hang our defeats on," he took another sip of cognac and grimaced slightly. "I suppose one has to get used to this stuff."

He looked up at the silent Navigator and shook his head. He wasn't all that sure he wasn't crazy doing what he was about to do.

"I've called you here for a reason, Ensign. With my promotion, the position of the Security Chief will be vacant. Command asked me if there was anyone on my staff I could recommend. I recommended you."

" _Me_?" Chekov was flabbergasted. His eyes widened with astonishment. "But... Sir, I'm—not even on your staff... And I'm—I'm only an ensign... There must be other..." he trailed off, looking utterly confused and miserable.

Giotto regarded him evenly.

"Your promotion is due by the time we get back to Earth," he informed the Ensign calmly. "As for you're not being on my staff—what does it matter? I think you're suitable for the job, so I'm recommending you."

"But I'm not a Security officer!"

"I reviewed your Academy file, Ensign. You have already taken half the courses you need for this position. You will be able to take another half while the _Enterprise_ will be refitted. Some cross assignments will be organized."

"But—"

"But what, Mr. Chekov? Don't you want the job?"

 _Frankly, no_ , Chekov wanted to say. He didn't, of course, but the answer must have been quite plain on his face, because Giotto suddenly appeared more somber.

"Ensign, you undoubtedly regard yourself as a command officer. One day even a captain. I'm not saying that you're unsuited for a career in command, but I can tell you this. It's going to take you a lot of time to get there. You are impulsive, confident and independent. You will rely on others only when you have no other option. You don't trust people easily. As far as I know, you stay alert even on shoreleaves. You don't like to let your guard down for anyone. I'm willing to bet that none of your crewmates know you half as well as you know them. That includes even Mr. Sulu. Those are the qualities, Ensign, that will make your ascend to command of your own an extremely long and difficult one."

Chekov was trying very hard to maintain his external calm. He felt exposed as if he was put under an extremely potent looking glass. It didn't feel right to be on the spot like that.

"Those are also the qualities," Giotto continued, seemingly unawares of Chekov's discomfort, "that will help you become a most proficient Security Chief. I don't know what made you thus, Mr. Chekov, but there's no denying that you are uniquely suited for this position."

"I don't see how, sir," Chekov said quietly.

"Well, let's see. Crew's help or no crew's help, you've stayed two steps ahead of my teams for four days in a sealed environment of a starship. You figured out that the saboteur would be an engineer. You picked locks without raising an alarm once. You overrode security protocols leaving no traces. That's not the first time I take a note of your, shall we say, unorthodox abilities. You, Mr. Chekov, think like a criminal. A damn smart one at that. But since you're on our side, it'd be a crime not to use it to our advantage."

Red in the face, eyes flashing, Chekov was having enough trouble keeping himself from objecting to be able to spare some energy and formulate a coherent answer. Whatever words came to his mind didn't sound particularly respectful.

"This might not happen, Ensign," Giotto said lamely, watching him. "I'm recommending you, but the decision will be up to Command. I just wanted to give you something to think about."

Chekov watched him reinserting the lid on the bottle. It was still full over the half. The older man looked up and intercepted his glance. His smile was anything but humorous.

"Ensign, I want you to understand one thing. I know you're thinking about the death rate in my department, and it's not that encouraging. We are in a dangerous line of work, there's no denying that. But the truth is, most people join Security for some very wrong reasons. They believe that Security doesn't require as much integrity, skill or knowledge as, say, Command or Science or Engineering. They think that if they aren't good enough for any of those, it's all right for them to join Security, because we have no such strict requirements. They're convinced that anyone can be a Security officer, as long as they're skilled with a phaser. They are wrong, Ensign. And that's why they die."

Giotto shook his head, letting his gaze wander off towards the ceiling and rest there.

"If only you knew how tired I am of watching those young arrogant over-confident bastards. I'm tired of watching them die some stupid death. Tired of writing to their families. I'm supposed to tell their parents that their kids were exceptional and gave their lives in the line of duty protecting the Federation. What I really want to tell them is that their son or daughter was an idiot, who shouldn't ever have been allowed aboard a starship, let alone Security division, in the first place, and who died a senseless death due to their own stupidity. There are very few like Garrovick, and those few don't usually stay with us for very long. I'm too old to try and change it all, Ensign. But you're not."

Chekov was staring at him darkly.

"It's a difficult task, sir."

"It's one hell of a task, Mr. Chekov. And the main reason for my recommending you for the post is that I think you can make it possible."

Chekov didn't have an answer at the ready. His head was buzzing with everything he'd heard, like a disturbed beehive.

"Commander... may I be excused?" he asked finally, realizing he wouldn't be able to come up with anything coherent any time soon.

Giotto nodded, studying him fixedly, as if calculating carefully his parting shot.

"You may go, Ensign. I'm certain you will see where your duty lies."

Chekov stopped abruptly and glanced sharply at him.

"Duty," he repeated in a tense voice. "Yes, sir."

Giotto nodded to himself silently, as the Ensign turned around and left.

 

 

\--

 

He was running late. Again. Of all the human idiosyncrasies he had experienced during his long years in Starfleet, this one was relatively new and most disconcerting. Being late was illogical. Being late when one had an internal sense of time available at any moment was unprecedented. Being late was unworthy of an officer and unhealthy for a Vulcan.

Yet late he was.

Not significantly enough for anyone to notice, but that wasn't a comforting notion. Nor was the reason behind this latest development. Thinking of the departed shuttle, Spock wondered bleakly if it was the right time to pick up another bad trait from his human shipmates and start to curse.

The ship was murky and quiet, late into the Gamma shift. With another twinge of disapproval, Spock realized that he would have to give Lieutenant Uhura some reason for only delivering the revised communications protocols to her now, instead of by the shift's start. It appeared that he would have to be creative, since the truth was impossible to bring into the open.

Not that he had a coherent formulation on the said truth even to himself.

The main doors to Communications department swished open to admit him, and Spock froze in the doorway, as if stopped by an invisible forcefield.

The vision of a couple engaged in passionate kissing would have been reason enough, but it was the participants that gave him a real halt.

Either Spock was more human in his core reactions than he liked to admit, or the Vulcans were closer to humans in this regard in general, but normally in a situation like that his first instinct would have been to apologize and walk away. His years in Starfleet had taught him that sometimes his duty as an officer was to fight that instinct, however hard it might be, and remind the personnel under his command that they were, in point of fact, on duty. Serving with human crews, Spock got used to it over time and didn't have to be as embarrassed as he once was about it. Humans did have this unfortunate tendency to engage in intimate rituals in most unsuitable places. Spock had to break up a party more than once since his first promotion. The situation was familiar and therefore not disturbing.

Not this one.

Hearing the door open, both Uhura and Sudak turned towards it, pulling away from each other.

For a long moment, there was nothing but a very uncomfortable silence. Two Vulcans stared at one another in a mute competition of who would appear the most unperturbed about it, letting Uhura's face reflect dismay and embarrassment for both of them as well as her own. Spock's eyes traveled to her finally, and she blushed furiously under his gaze.

"Lieutenant," he said, making an uneasy couple of steps forward. "These are the revised protocols as you requested. I apologize for the delay."

He handed her the data chip. As he didn't come all the way toward her, she had to disengage herself from Sudak in order to take it. Her hand trembled slightly as she accepted the chip, and she couldn't lift her eyes at him.

"I would appreciate if you review them now," he said, his voice tightening.

"Yes, sir," she muttered.

Walking over to her working area, Uhura wondered nervously if Spock moved her off the field on purpose. She could almost feel the air crackling with electricity behind her back. For some reason, she was not particularly surprised when in a silent battle of wills Sudak was the one to break first.

"If you have a question to ask, Commander, ask it," the elder Vulcan said evenly.

"A question?" Spock's voice was a model of calmness. "A question under such circumstances would be illogical, Commissioner. I have long since observed that those who impose the rules of higher morality on others are usually the ones most susceptible to unethical actions."

Uhura turned in time to see Sudak's face assume a pale shade of green.

"I find this observation illogical."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "It is a known paradox."

"Are you accusing me of unethical conduct?"

"I am in no position to make such accusations against a Shari, a paragon of virtue."

"Shari have their own code of ethics."

"Indeed? That is highly convenient. And illuminating."

"I will not have you mock me, Spock. You are a known transgressor, and even if my actions were open for judgment, it would not have been yours to make."

"Indeed. Humans have an expression which defines the situation perfectly. Quod licet Iovi non licet bovi."

Uhura winced and glanced up at the two of them, watching Sudak's face attain even more color. Apparently, there was no need in guessing whether he required a translation.

"To act on attraction is logical," Sudak said.

"Perhaps," Spock acknowledged. "However, one might assume that one should not necessarily do so when one is bonded."

"Bonded?" Uhura gasped, abandoning even the pretense of attending to her task. "Is this true?"

Spock shot her a surprised glance, and then his eyes narrowed dangerously as he turned back to his opponent.

"You did not inform the Lieutenant of your status?"

"She did not request this information of me," Sudak returned with renewed arrogance.

"And you didn't find it necessary to volunteer it?" she snapped, coming closer. Her eyes were alight with fury and humiliation. "I didn't request it, because it didn't _occur_ to me that you'd be making any advances if you weren't free! You're a Vulcan! Is that your kind of honor?"

"Lieutenant, there is no need to insult the whole race because of one person's conduct," Spock noted, slightly pained.

"This is unacceptable," Sudak pronounced. "I will not have either of you lecture me. You," he looked at Uhura, "are a human. You should have been gratified to earn the attention of a Vulcan Shari. It is clear to me though that even exceptional beauty does not make a human a compatible companion. And you," he turned to Spock. "You will do well to remember that my recommendation weighs much with Shari Tcha'kla. You will do well to remember that your father's career will not withstand another blow like Sybok's. Any Vulcan whose offspring is persistent in defying logic has no place in the Vulcan High Council. Remember this, Spock."

With that, he turned and exited the room, in a slightly more hurried motion than was suitable for a Vulcan dignitary.

"Bastard," Uhura spit, rounding on the closed door. "Arrogant, self-important bastard!"

"Lieutenant—"

"I should be grateful that he looked at me? _I_ should be?" she stormed. "Who does he think he is? And did he just threaten you, Spock? Did he actually have the guts to—"

"Lieutenant... Please, Uhura. You must calm down."

"I don't want to calm down! I want to scratch his face until his own mother wouldn't recognize him!"

"I cannot allow you to do that. He will undoubtedly file a complaint, and you will be court-martialed for assaulting a Starfleet official."

"Yes, he will, won't he? The bastard..."

Spock noted with a certain measure of relief that she reduced her agitation to a bearable point.

"Are you all right?" he asked cautiously.

"No, I'm not all right," she laughed sardonically and shook her head. "I don't even know how any of this has happened. One moment we were talking. And then, he kind of... leaned over, and... or was it me?"

Spock was watching her face change color, as her anger gave way to embarrassment and confusion. To say that the topic or the situation was uncomfortable for him would be an understatement. But she was clearly in much greater discomfort, and he knew that the only way to help her would be to sort this out now. However appalling the subject might turn out to his Vulcan sensibilities and upbringing.

"His interest in you was quite obvious from the beginning," he spoke softly, albeit a bit coolly. "Surely, you could not have been unaware?"

She winced and glanced up at him sharply.

"You knew?"

Spock pursed his lips.

"I might be unemotional, Lieutenant," he said dryly. "Not necessarily unobservant."

She blushed again, but managed to maintain eye contact.

"Oh, Spock, what must you think of me," she muttered in unspeakable despair. "I don't know why I allowed this to happen. There was something about him that just... It's not the kind of thing I'm used to doing."

"I know," he said, and she looked at him in surprise. "I know you sufficiently to know that you have a strong sense of personal ethics. I have been honored to consider you my friend all these years. That is why I am gratified that I have interrupted you. Sudak would never be able to take you as a bondmate, and whatever... physical experiences you might have shared, they would not have been exclusive."

She started.

"What do you mean?"

He stepped back subconsciously, as if trying to create some distance between them. Just in case.

"You are aware, I trust, that bonded Vulcans are linked telepathically?" she nodded, and he continued warily. "The nature of the link allows no... detours to go unnoticed."

She took a moment to process this, distinctly aware of the sacrifice he was committing for her sake by going on with her this far into what clearly was another touchy topic.

"You don't cheat," she translated finally.

"Indeed. Any engagement with a partner outside the bond occurs with mutual consent... and participation."

"What? But how...?"

"Through the link."

She blushed more than ever, almost to the point of spontaneous combustion.

"You mean that if I... if we... someone else would have... been there with us?"

Spock was still eyeing her apprehensively, as if expecting her to become violent at any moment. He nodded cautiously.

"But, Lieutenant, you have to understand. This is an exception rather than a rule. Very few Vulcans choose to engage in such practice. The Commissioner should have informed you he was one of them."

"Damn right, he should have!" she hissed angrily. "I have never been this humiliated in my life!"

Impulsively, he stepped closer to her, resting a hand on her arm, despite the building pressure attacking his shields.

"You have no reason to be humiliated. Sudak's behavior diminishes him, not you. I do not approve of the Commissioner's actions, but I have to admit, I understand what prompted them. You were simply... too much of a temptation, even for a Vulcan, to remain unaffected."

She smiled weakly.

"Is that a compliment, Mr. Spock?"

His lips twitched slightly, as he picked up her change of mood.

"A statement of fact, Lieutenant."

She laughed softly and shook her head.

"You're always you, aren't you? Always your inimitable self. Sometimes I think, Mr. Spock, that if you lose your cool for an instant, the world would come to an end."

He frowned.

"Fortunately, there is no scientific basis for this dependence."

"What did he threaten you with?" she asked abruptly, catching him off guard. "And what is Shari Tcha'kla?"

He shook his head gravely.

"You need not concern yourself. It is a private matter. And the Commissioner did not threaten me. He simply reminded me of some obligations I must carry out."

"Can you?" she asked, searching his eyes for clues. She didn't feel particularly reassured by what she was seeing.

Spock bowed his head for a moment.

"I... should hope so." He straightened up determinedly. "I have taken enough of your time, Lieutenant. If you will excuse me."

"Spock," she called after him. He glanced at her warily. "Good luck."

And instead of lecturing her on the illogic of the concept, he simply nodded curtly in acknowledgement.


	21. The Final Countdown

"That's another negative, sir," Sulu reported, glancing up from the scanners. "Nothing in orbit, nothing in the vicinity."

"Any tachyon emissions?"

"No, sir."

"Damn," Kirk swore. "They gotta be here, somewhere. How many more of those do we have till our rendezvous with the _Enterprise_?"

"Another two systems, Captain. Faruzah and Teleron."

"Fine, set a course to the closest. Ahead best possible speed."

"Aye, sir."

Kirk leaned back in his chair, fuming in frustration. The thought that this was the final assignment of his five-year mission made his teeth whine. Couldn't they have a first contact mission? Or, an exploratory survey of a new sector? This chase for terrorists was nothing but disappointment and failure, with a good prospect of growing casualties list. Kirk closed his eyes tiredly.

He should have refused. But how could he? It was never even an option. They had been targeted, after all, not the other way around. Other starships didn't have _Nailers'_ saboteurs aboard. Nor did they have one Pavel Chekov.

Nor Spock.

He gritted his teeth. This was getting tiresome. Not only did he have a constant headache, he also couldn't get Spock out of his mind.

 _Why don't you order me to surrender?_

One of them had to make a decision.

Whoever that would be, they'd better make it fast, before either of them exploded. Kirk could not remember the level of tension between him and Spock ever rising so high. If his physical condition was any indication, this intensity could not be tolerated for much longer. Someone had to make a decision.

Why not him?

After all, Kirk had been a decision-maker all his life. His mother used to complain that he was the most willful and independent child she had ever seen. But the moment he realized he was getting onto somebody's nerves, he charmed his way out of it, with his compelling smile and innocent shiny eyes. He didn't remember much about being a toddler, but he had no reasons not to trust his mother on that one.

With his predilection toward assuming responsibility already in place, he had the misfortune to go to Tarsus. To this day, he had no idea why he was picked up to be marked as a survivor. The blue cross on his forehead was his ticket to safety. To life.

He didn't want to take it.

Not when his great aunt Marina got a red one. Not when Zdenek received the same. His neighbor was thirteen, just like Jimmy. There wasn't really enough time for them to become friends. Not that Jimmy Kirk was in any mood to do so anyway, having just lost his father. But when the guards came to take Zdenek away, Jimmy stunned them, and helped the other boy escape.

It wasn't long till he joined some sort of a crude resistance cell, helping the others. It wasn't long, also, till he got caught. He was brought to Kodos and expected to be executed for his actions. The Governor looked him in the eye for a very long time, and when he couldn't stare him down, he told the guards that this one was going to live.

'I am never wrong in my choices,' he had said. 'This one's genome is worthy of preservation.'

There wasn't anything to be happy about, for he got his punishment nonetheless. Day after day, he was forced to watch the executions. Until the day came when his team was caught to the very last person. That day Jim Kirk could never forget.

They weren't tortured like the others. But they died, looking into his eyes. The leader of the cell was the last one to go. He smiled at him, somewhat apologetically.

'I guess I didn't do that well, Jimmy. Maybe you should have been the captain after all.'

Yes, Jimmy thought vehemently. He should have. It was the end of an old debate between them, and the victory tasted sour.

'I could have saved them,' he thought then, his anger flaring. 'I wouldn't have done the same mistakes.'

How he could have been so sure, he didn't know. In retrospect, he knew any resistance was doomed. And most certainly, if a thirteen-year-old boy would have done better than a forty-year-old man, that would have been mostly due to some unpredictable fluke of chance, nothing else. But there and then, he had understood one thing with absolute certainty.

He had to be the one making decisions.

It was the only way to diminish the pain that was devouring him. This was the way to grasp what small measure of control over his own life was humanly possible to achieve. This was the way never to be forced to watch other people suffering, helpless to save them, helpless to even die with them. Even that decision was no longer his, and that was intolerable. He would not have it.

Never again.

Several years later, as he entered Starfleet Academy, there wasn't the slightest doubt in his mind about what field to choose. He showed certain inclination towards Engineering, but declined the option with resolution rarely encountered among cadets-to-be.

He wanted to be in command, he _needed_ to be in command. This was the only way he knew how to live. The only way he could ensure the safety of those he cared for. He had to be the one making decisions. His career was skyrocketing in its success, because the combination of knowledge, experience and intuition enabled him to make correct decisions most of the time. And when he happened to make an error, no one was more aware of it than he was. He could do anything, as long as the decision was his to make.

Why didn't he want to be the decision-maker now?

His career aside, even his personal relationships came as a long history of conquest. He was never the slow one, never the waiting one. He was always prepared to fight for what he wanted with any means available. True, he never missed an opportunity when it came down upon him, but even then he made sure everyone was perfectly clear on who was the leader.

And now, for the first time in his life, he didn't want it.

He didn't want to push, he didn't want to press, he didn't want to force.

He didn't want to order Spock to surrender.

For that matter, he didn't want him to surrender. He didn't want him to _have_ to surrender. He didn't want this to be a battle at all. He didn't want this to be a fight.

What he wanted was a Spock who would come to him freely. By his own choice, made without any kind of influence. He wanted to create an environment of safety, of peace. He wanted to be a candle on a windowsill, not a tractor beam.

He wanted, against every experience he had ever had, against his very nature, against every fiber in his body, he wanted Spock to make the decision for both of them. But, that being true, he didn't want him to make the wrong one. And, knowing Spock, as he knew him, he had every reason not to trust him with the right choice. So often in the past, the Vulcan demonstrated that he didn't know what was good for him...

The conflict appeared to be irresolvable, and so Kirk couldn't stop fighting.

He was fighting because he was scared. Deep inside, he suspected Spock had very similar reasons. The Vulcan must have been feeling very vulnerable, very exposed, if he was fighting Kirk this fiercely. His Captain was usually the one person he could put his trust in without reservations...

 _What have I done wrong, Spock? What have I done to make you doubt me?_ _Why can't you just—_

"Captain."

Kirk snapped his eyes open, startled. Sulu was watching him with a frown of concern.

"I'm sorry, sir. You were groaning. Are you in pain, Captain?"

"No."

 _Yes_.

He shook his head to clear it.

"I'm fine, Mr. Sulu, thank you for your concern," he sounded a bit more dryly than he intended.

"Yes, sir," the Helmsman returned his gaze to his board. After a pause, he noted cautiously, "I suppose you'd prefer another traveling companion, Captain."

"Why do you say that?" Kirk asked sharply.

"Well, sir..." Sulu went slightly red. "It's just that it's a long time to spend in a shuttlecraft with nothing to do, before we enter another system. I just thought it would have been easier for you if Mr. Spock were here, or Doctor McCoy."

Kirk stared at him intensely for several long seconds, before finally stretching his lips in a mildly relaxed smile.

"And I suppose you'd prefer Mr. Chekov's company to mine?"

Sulu grinned.

"Not necessarily. There were certain things I wanted to ask you about, if you don't mind?"

"Go ahead," Kirk nodded amiably, determined to rectify his earlier slip.

"Captain... The Academy Command training. What am I to expect?"

Kirk's smile widened.

"A lot of unexpected, Mr. Sulu. You're up for a two-year course, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, last I heard Lambielle was still reading Advanced Strategy, and Dikun is the Chief Field Training Instructor this year. I'd say you're gonna lose a lot of sleep, but you're gonna love every minute."

Sulu grinned ruefully.

"Every minute, sir?"

Kirk glanced at him shrewdly.

"I see you've heard about Commander Dikun."

"Yes, sir," the Helmsman confessed reluctantly. "They say he's... well..."

"Ruthless?" Kirk nodded. "That he is. But he's also the best Field Training Instructor the Academy has known for years. Pay attention to everything he says. Half of the valuable information about the mission would come in small talk and rambling, which most cadets automatically dismiss."

"He's doing this on purpose, sir?"

"After so many years, I should hope so," Kirk grunted. His voice changed as he imitated the Commander, "'Details, Mr. Kirk. All the little, subtle, inconspicuous details that you missed. If you'd be wondering at any time, it was your inattention to details that made you fail the test.'"

Sulu stared at him.

"You—failed a test, sir?"

Kirk looked at him sternly.

"Just this one. And you're not allowed to tell anyone."

"Yes, sir," Sulu grinned. "I also wanted to ask you—"

The shuttle suddenly gave a violent shake, as if hit by a meteor.

"What happened?" Kirk demanded, grabbing the panel for support. The readings were in total havoc.

"I don't know, sir! Looks like someone's caught us with a tractor beam."

"How's that possible? You said there weren't any ships in the vicinity?"

"I don't know, but we're being pulled off course by a cloaked vessel. Maybe it's a different kind of cloak?"

"Send a message to the _Enterprise_ —"

"I already tried, Captain, they're jamming all frequencies."

"Great," Kirk spat, as the shuttle continued its bumpy ride. "This thing doesn't even have weapons. Can't we break free?"

"No, Captain," Sulu's hands were flying over his console. "I've tried every trick in the book, but they're blocking me on every turn."

"Well," Kirk drawled darkly. "It appears we're up for a ride."

Sulu glanced sideways at him and nodded.

"All we can do is wait."

 

 

\--

It was her first duty shift since Uhura had returned to the Alpha watch roster, and she would have preferred it to be quiet and smooth, just to get back on the main track. As a wide wave of red lights splashed across her board, she realized that her wish would not be granted.

"Mr. Spock!" she couldn't keep anxiety out of her voice completely. "I'm receiving a transmission from Lericon II. It's coming on all Federation channels."

Spock, who had been deep in a discussion with Scott at the Engineering station, turned to her, an eyebrow on the rise.

"An emergency?"

She frowned, as she listened further to the message. Her eyes widened and she gasped.

"You could say that."

"On screen."

It was the sound that attacked them first. A high-pitched, wailing screech, like someone was scratching the gigantic glass, was so loud and full of desperation, it made them grab their ears. Only then, the image registered. The screen was filled by flames engulfing a living creature, a humanoid, bound to a pole.

It was being burnt alive.

The Bridge crew stared at the horrific show in stupefied silence. Many were clasping their hands to their mouths. A young Yeoman dropped the padd she was carrying and bumped into Scott, who steadied her automatically, without sparing her a look. Spock stepped down to the command chair, apparently without realizing he did that.

"Lieutenant, block audio," he ordered briskly.

She winced, lost in the terrible view, and rushed to obey the command. Her hands were quivering slightly.

The ensuing silence was more deafening than the scream itself. The eyes of the crew remained glued to the viewscreen, but now they were able to extract themselves from the unimaginable nightmare.

"This is coming from Lericon II?" Spock asked. When there was no immediate reply, he turned to the Communications station and snapped, "Lieutenant. I asked you a question."

"Yes, sir," she jerked back, as if he slapped her. "I'm sorry, sir. The transmission originates from the main settlement."

"Mr. Chekov," Spock spun around towards Navigation. "ETA at our current speed?"

"Three hours twenty-four minutes, Mr. Spock."

"Mr. Scott—"

"Aye, I can give ye more speed," the Engineer nodded before Spock finished. "But not much more, Mr. Spock, and I wouldn't recommend it. It'll save us about twenty minutes maybe, and there's no way to tell what it'd do to the engines."

The turbolift doors swished open, and McCoy came into the Bridge looking pale and shaken.

"My God, Spock. What in blue blazes is going on there?"

"I believe we are about to find out, Doctor."

The image changed suddenly. There were now not one, but five death-fires, and the camera was carefully taking shots of the five burning figures. Uhura was grateful beyond words that Spock made her block the audio, for all of them were clearly crying out unceasingly in their agony.

"Two Vulcans, an Andorian, and two humans," Spock said in an unnaturally calm voice. "I would say we have found the _Nailers_."

"How can you be so blasted calm about it?" McCoy snapped, trying to extinguish his utter terror with anger. "These are living people—"

The image changed again before he had a chance to finish. The flames were gone. They were now looking at a somewhat darkened room, which appeared to be one of the colony's administrative facilities. The men occupying it were undoubtedly rubindium miners, judging by their uniform. But the man standing in front of the group was definitely not one of them.

He was short and somewhat crumbly, with a big bald head. His features were a bit blurry, as if a painter had a moment of indecision when creating his face and projected this indecisiveness onto the canvas. His eyes were big, round and black, and they looked at his audience with an air of some superior power hidden under the surface. The man was dressed in some dark, crudely made clothes, and wore no insignia.

Spock signaled Uhura to turn the audio back on the moment before he started to speak.

"My name is Heinrich Kramer. We are the _Nailers_. What you have just seen were the first eradicated spawns of infestation that consumes the human race. There are three hundred more on this planet."

The image was switched to a different room, where about fifty prisoners were held. Most were representing different nonhuman Federation species, but there were humans, too, by the looks of it, the colony officials.

"Spock, there're children there," McCoy whispered in horror.

The image returned to Kramer.

"We demand that all human colonies start evacuating immediately and proceed back to the Solar System. Humans have no business going into space. We have operatives everywhere. If they tell me that no movement to fulfill our demands had been made within the hour, we will fry another five of these beasts. And then another. Humans must stick to their roots and reject the poison of aliens. We must decontaminate ourselves. Only then will humans be safe. One hour countdown starts now."

The transmission ended.

"Sweet heavens protect us," McCoy muttered in the ensued silence. "What are we going to do, Spock?"

The Vulcan appeared to be deep in thought.

"We are the only ship in the vicinity. We are going to act. Lieutenant Uhura, contact Starfleet Command, apprise them of our situation. Tell them we are changing course for Lericon II. Mr. Farrell, if you please."

"Yes, sir," the helmsman on duty nodded.

"Mr. Spock, what about the Captain?" Uhura asked, frozen in mid-action. "We have about four hours till the rendezvous."

"It appears we will be late," he replied evenly. "Is it possible to signal the shuttle?"

She checked several channels and shook her head.

"They're either out of range, or the communications are being disrupted."

"Or they may be in trouble," Scott noted.

Spock didn't react at once. A deep frown crossed his forehead, and his hands, lying seemingly loosely on the railing, turned almost white. McCoy stepped closer to him.

"There are three hundred people in trouble there, Spock," he reminded quietly. "We don't know what happened to Jim, but we do know that they will die a horrible death if no one helps them. I don't think the Federation will start any evacuations. Do you?"

Spock glanced at him, but the Doctor got a distinct impression that the Vulcan hadn't heard a word he'd said. His eyes were a void.

Taking another step to him, coming to point blank range, McCoy said, even quieter.

"I know what you're going through, Spock, but you are the captain. You can't afford it right now."

Spock stepped away from him abruptly. Only then did he notice the unnatural silence on the Bridge, with everyone's attention drawn to him. Automatically, he stood a little straighter.

"Mr. Farrell, execute the change of course. Mr. Scott, Mr. Chekov, Doctor McCoy, please join me in Briefing Room 2. Lieutenant Uhura, page Commander Giotto to meet us there. Signal Yellow Alert and continue attempting to raise the shuttlecraft. You have the conn until further notice."

"Aye, sir."

As they entered the turbolift cabin, Scott contacted Engineering, demanding more power. Spock thanked him with a silent nod. Chekov was staring at the wall, shell-shocked with what he'd seen. McCoy was watching Spock, allowing his worry for one person obstruct his own horror at what had happened. Scott remained quiet and grim.

Giotto was waiting for them already, and the look on his face was a clear indication that he had seen the transmission. Spock gestured for them to take seats.

"Gentlemen, we require a plan of actions," he said, steepling his fingers. "Opinions."

"We need to set up our objective first, Commander," Giotto noted reasonably. "Are we to free the hostages? Or is our main purpose to apprehend the _Nailers_?"

"What kind of question is that?" McCoy snapped explosively. "The hostages must come first! There are children there, for heaven's sake!"

"Doctor," Spock shot him a warning glance. "Kindly control your outbursts. I understand that the situation is difficult for your moral imperatives. However, little can be gained by losing one's temper," he turned back to Giotto. "Our objective should be cleared with Starfleet Command first. Until such clarification arrives, our main goal is the safe release of the hostages. Commander, in your estimate, does the number three hundred appear accurate?"

Giotto frowned.

"There's no reason not to trust him, sir. Lericon II is an old mining colony. There were about two—two and a half thousand people in the main settlement. Mostly miners who'd signed long-termed contracts."

"Why so many nonhumans?" McCoy asked.

Giotto glanced at him gravely.

"Lericon also has the only Federation-type hospital in the system. One would assume—"

"Oh my God," the Doctor shook his head in disbelief. "This is getting better and better."

"Mr. Spock," Chekov's voice sounded strained and somewhat weak. He knew he was here as a resident expert on the _Nailers_ , and his discomfort was palpable. "The _Nailers'_ ship that we destroyed at Miraxine only carried a complement of one hundred and forty. Even if both other ships are at Lericon, even if they beamed every last person down, they wouldn't have enough people to take control of the colony."

McCoy looked just as perplexed, but Spock, Scott and Giotto exchanged a rather grim glance.

"The message that we watched, Ensign," Spock reminded him. "Haven't you noticed the miners flanking Mr. Kramer?"

"You're saying they're on his side?" McCoy asked aghast. "But why?"

Scotty sighed in exasperation.

"It's clear that ye don't have the slightest idea what it's like to be a long-termed miner, Doctor," he said. "They're underpaid, overworked, they live in barracks, and the management usually doesn't give a damn. Ye can't imagine the kind of scum that signs up for this kind of work."

"Plus, there have been some reports of disturbances," Giotto added. "Beluska is very far from Earth, Doctor. The mining companies have their hands free to do what they want with their personnel. There's no regular transportation; communications are expensive and restricted. News travels slow here. It wouldn't surprise me if the Federation Council hadn't heard a thing about any of this yet."

"Aye. I bet when Kramer turned up there, telling that everyone should go home, they greeted him like their own brother," Scott grunted with disdain. "Who wouldn't want to fry up a boss who mistreats ye?"

"But the _Nailers_ are sadistic, evil... What they did on Miraxine..."

"I'm not certain those miners had even heard of Miraxine," Giotto said. "It's not like they have a vid in every quarters. And even if they did, the transmissions are not exactly uncensored."

"We have no allies in that colony," Spock concluded. "We need to free the innocent and prevent the guilty from escaping. We cannot afford to wait for reinforcements."

"As if they'd do any good," Scott muttered. "Unless ye want to eradicate the colony."

"I agree," Spock said. "Which brings us back to the starting point. We require a plan of action. I suggest—"

The whistle of the comm interrupted him.

"Mr. Spock," Uhura's face appeared on the monitor. "An incoming message from Starfleet Command. Priority One, sir."

"Relay," Spock nodded.

The image of Uhura faded, replaced by a familiar, though far less enjoyable visual of Admiral Nogura.

"Commander Spock," Nogura didn't waste any time on a 'hello'. "Where's your Captain?"

"He is not on board, sir. He is away on a reconnaissance mission."

"Isn't that your job?" Nogura barked. "Or is he covering for you again? To hell with it. You heard the transmission."

"Yes, sir."

"In case you were wondering, there will be no evacuation of Earth colonies."

"I assumed as much," Spock said, shooting a glance at McCoy.

"Your orders, Commander, are to proceed to Lericon II, best possible speed, monitor the situation closely and prevent the _Nailers_ from escaping by any means necessary."

"What about the hostages, Admiral?"

"You will demand their safe release."

"I do not believe the _Nailers_ will comply, Admiral."

Nogura stared at him, as if he was raving.

"Of course they won't comply. When were you born, Spock? Yesterday?"

"Then I am to plan a rescue operation? We are currently—"

"You will do no such thing," Nogura cut him off sharply. "No rescue operation, no diplomacy, no decoys. Starfleet doesn't negotiate with terrorists, Mr. Spock."

"Then the hostages will most certainly die."

"You don't know that," Nogura said. "You never know how a terrorist's mind works. They might decide to surrender, if we guarantee them life. You can offer them as much."

"Admiral, this is not—"

"I will not risk a trained and valuable crew for a hopeless cause, Commander," the Admiral's voice was steeled. "We've been running calculations here in HQ. Any attempt of rescue on your part will only lead to more fatalities. You are to monitor the situation and await the special task force that will reach your sector in a week."

" _A week_?" McCoy gasped. "That's—"

But Scott had already pulled him away from the table, preventing another outburst, though he, too, was shaking with rage.

"Admiral," Spock looked openly alarmed at the prospect. He made a visible effort to get a grip on himself. "This is hardly acceptable. One of the fundamental duties of every Starfleet officer is to defend civilians. We cannot simply forsake those people."

"Commander, that's enough," Nogura would clearly have none of it. "I don't have time to give you a lecture on the subject of terrorists' psychology. You of all people should understand that we can't afford to appear weak. The _Nailers_ aren't the only ones out there, waiting for us to make a wrong step. If we cave now, we'll lose not only those three hundred lives but numerous others. Any rescue operation is doomed. If we undertake one and lose, we'll appear even weaker. So save your humanitarian notions and act like a Vulcan and like an officer. You have your orders."

"Yes, sir," Spock replied tightly.

"I will expect hourly status reports, Commander," the Admiral shot a parting blast. "Nogura out."

The screen went blank.

"I don't believe it!" McCoy exclaimed, shaking Scotty off at last. " _Monitor the situation?_ Monitor the situation? I've _monitored_ enough incineration of living tissue to last me a lifetime! How can they be so cruel?"

"Please, calm yourself, Doctor," Spock said sharply, his own anger slipping through his shields. "Logically the Admiral is correct. We cannot concede to terrorists and our chances of completing a successful rescue on our own are not promising."

"So we're just going to sit here and do nothing?" McCoy slammed his fist into the table. "Dammit, Spock! I can't sit tight and watch children die!"

"Perhaps you will not have to," Spock reflected somewhat calmer. "The Admiral is wrong."

"Damn right, he's wrong! We should be able to save—"

"No," Spock objected. "He is correct in his assessment of our chances. But he is wrong in his belief that Kramer is a terrorist."

Four pairs of eyes stared at him in confusion.

"Come again?" McCoy slumped back into his chair, enervated. "Are you saying he's not a terrorist?"

"I am saying," the Vulcan was speaking slowly, as if voicing his immediate thoughts, "that I now know why the symbol of the _Nailers_ is a hammer."

"That's your revelation?" McCoy stared at him incredulously. "That you need a hammer to pin down a nail?"

"No, Doctor," Spock lifted his eyes on McCoy slowly, as if seeing him for the first time. "Commander Giotto can tell you that the _Nailers_ were not using this particular pictogram prior to Kramer's arrival."

Giotto nodded, frowning.

"Kramer," Spock repeated pensively. "Heinrich Kramer. I should have seen that earlier. Does not that name mean anything to you?"

"Of course it does," McCoy snapped impatiently. "He's a murderer and a sadist, and he's holding hostage three hundred people."

"And," Spock added, "Heinrich Kramer is a fifteenth century inquisitor who wrote the tractate—"

"' _Hexenhammer_ '," Chekov gasped suddenly, his eyes going wide with shock. "' _The Hammer Against Witches'_."

"Also known as Malleus Maleficarum," Spock nodded. "A detailed guide of how to hunt down, torture and eliminate witches."

"Witches?" Scott repeated, perplexed. "But those were just superstitions."

"Indeed," Spock said. "Those superstitions were made almost a state religion in medieval Europe. A lot of intelligent, different in some way or simply unfortunate people were—incinerated, I believe is the term you used, Doctor—because of those superstitions. Kramer, our Kramer, believes he is eradicating the galactic evil. He is not a terrorist. He is a fanatic."

A rather long silence ensued, as they were contemplating this.

"What a twist," McCoy muttered, nonplused. "But I don't see how that helps us, Spock."

"I do," the Vulcan steepled his fingers again. A sure sign of his confidence returning. "A terrorist is usually a healthy person who experiences a severe emotional distress. They believe in their cause. They acknowledge their own brand of logic. They can be reasoned with, if their demands are fulfilled. Fanaticism, on the other hand, is an illness of the mind," Spock lifted his eyes and looked squarely at McCoy. "And the mind, Doctor, can be controlled."

It took a moment for McCoy to realize what Spock was suggesting, and as the realization came, he turned pale as ashes.

"No, Spock," he forced out with difficulty. "You can't do this."

"I must," Spock objected calmly. He appeared to have regained his composure in full. "It is the only way."

"You'll never get to him!" McCoy wailed. "And even if you do, it's against every rule in the book. You'll be in violation of Nogura's standing orders!"

"The Admiral ordered me not to organize a rescue attempt and not to negotiate," Spock returned blandly. "This will not be either."

"What about Vulcans, Spock?" McCoy was grasping at straws, but he couldn't help it. There had to be a way to stop this madness. "Isn't what you're planning something strictly forbidden by your people's laws?"

"I do not have a choice, Doctor. I do not intend to stand idly by and watch three hundred people being murdered. And that," he raised his voice slightly, getting to his feet, "is final."

"This is insane!" McCoy rose up, too, not willing to give up an inch of ground. "In case you haven't noticed, Spock, you aren't human! All this crazy plan of yours is going to accomplish is make Kramer's three hundred hostages three hundred and one! I have no intention of watching you being burnt alive, and that's exactly what's going to happen if you beam down there! Dammit! Scotty, Giotto, tell him he's lost it!"

"That is enough, Doctor," Spock said coldly. "You have duties to perform. Attend to them. Commander Giotto, I shall require your assistance with preparation. Mr. Scott, assume command. Your first priority will be returning Captain Kirk's shuttle," he glanced around the room pointedly. "These are my orders, gentlemen. Dismissed."

Scott was the first one to budge. He came to his feet, looking grave and solemn. He walked over to the First Officer and looked him in the eye unblinkingly.

"Spock. This isn't gonna work."

Spock returned the stare firmly.

"You have your orders, Commander."

"Aye, and I will follow them. But what ye're planning is suicide. Yer death isn't gonna help these people a bit. And when the Captain learns that I let ye do it, he's gonna shove me outta the nearest airlock, and I'm not so sure he'll be all that wrong."

"And if you do not 'let me' do it, I will have you court-martialed for insubordination. I will do it, Mr. Scott. Make no mistake."

The corner of Scott's mouth twitched in a shadow of a smirk.

"Ye might repeat it another couple of times, it's not gonna make me believe it. Ye're not a very good liar."

Spock considered briefly arguing the point, but he could see the faux pas. He changed the tactics.

"The Captain will know that the responsibility and the decision were mine. I appreciate your concern, Mr. Scott, but unless you can offer another option, I suggest you report to the Bridge." And, as Scott showed no signs of rushing to obey, Spock added, "I know what I'm doing."

 _I doubt it_ , Scott's eyes told him. Aloud, the Engineer said only, "Aye."

And then, he did something that unintentionally evoked a surge of overwhelming gratitude from the Vulcan. He walked over to McCoy, took him firmly by the elbow and steered him out of the room, like a tow-boat. The action was so unexpected, that the Doctor was surprised into silence. Confused and utterly shaken, Chekov followed them out, not looking back.

Spock rubbed his forehead, without realizing he was doing it. He knew that every word of their warnings had been true, and yet he saw no other option. He wondered vaguely if Jim would forgive him, if he would understand.

At the moment, however, those concerns seemed irrelevant. Spock suppressed a sigh, and sat back down, in order to discuss the plan of the operation with the Security Chief. They did not have that much time, after all.


	22. Puppets and Puppeteers

The silence was getting denser by the second. Countless moments had passed since the shuttle had stopped moving, but hard as they tried to hear anything from the outside, no sound came in.

"What are they waiting for?" Sulu whispered nervously. "They know they got us."

Kirk frowned. His body was humming in a mute resonance of tension, adrenaline flooding his veins.

"Scan the exterior for life signs," he ordered curtly.

Sulu activated the scanners, chiding himself silently for not thinking about it earlier.

"I'm reading about a hundred human life signs on board," he reported perplexedly. "But none in close proximity. The deck is pressurized, we can come out."

Kirk glanced at him sharply.

"Are you certain we can't _get_ out of here?"

Sulu checked several panels, but he knew the answer already.

"No, sir," he shook his head. "They hold us tightly."

"Well," Kirk sighed. "I have always found this sort of invitation irresistible."

He smiled a dangerous, predatory smile, and Sulu shivered. He had seen the sight before. There could be no doubts whatsoever as to what would ensue.

Kirk reached down for the arms locker in the deck and opened it. He handed a phaser to the Helmsman, then took another for himself and came to his feet.

"Captain," Sulu called from behind, indicating that he should go first.

Kirk didn't appear to hear him.

The shuttle door rose up opening, and they glanced outside ready to take cover. What they saw was an alien looking and completely deserted hanger deck. Kirk and Sulu exchanged a glance.

"Someone forgot to send in the honor guard," Sulu commented.

Kirk nodded thoughtfully.

"All right. It appears we'll have to go and find our hosts ourselves."

Wary and alert, they walked out of the shuttle and proceeded towards the only visible exit. Sulu glanced around in hopes of seeing the control panel that would release the shuttle from the forcefield hold, but none came in sight.

The corridor greeted them with cutting greenish lights and emptiness.

"It looks like a Romulan ship," Kirk muttered under his breath. "But unlike any I've seen before. It's almost as if it were—"

"Captain," Sulu interrupted him sharply.

A man was lying on the deck, curled in the fetal position. He groaned softly.

Warily, Kirk kneeled at his side and studied him closely. He noticed a shallow thread of drying blood streaming down the man's neck. A short knife was lying on the deck, way out of reach, as if thrown away carelessly. Kirk reached automatically to check for the injury, but the man jerked back, without regaining his consciousness, and moaned louder.

"What's wrong with him?" Sulu asked in bewilderment.

"I have no idea," Kirk admitted, getting back to his feet. "A scratch couldn't be accountable for this. Let's go."

Very soon, they encountered another man in similar condition. Then another one. A woman. A group of three. All curled up on the deck; some semi-conscious, some completely out, but all unquestionably in deep pain.

"Captain, if they are all like this..." Sulu intoned, utterly confused.

"They aren't all like this," Kirk objected firmly. "Someone has brought us aboard, Mr. Sulu. None of them could. Let's get to the Bridge, wherever that is."

The turbolift, despite Kirk's misgivings, had brought them to the Bridge without delay. The _Enterprise_ officers looked around with tamed curiosity. Neither of them had seen anything like this design before. But apart from alien equipment, the Bridge was full of silent, rigid figures of humans manning various stations. They barely stirred and no one turned at the sound of the elevator doors opening.

Exchanging an uneasy glance, Kirk and Sulu stepped cautiously to the inner rim, or more accurately the inner triangle. One of the chairs at the center console was occupied by a slender, fragile looking woman. She had short dark hair, and unlike the others, her neck appeared to be devoid of scratches. There was but a small bruise under the delicately shaped ear, but apart from this, she appeared unharmed.

Just as Kirk was about to touch her, she straightened up in her chair and looked at him.

Young, he thought dazed. She couldn't be older than fifteen... Well, maybe seventeen. But still, a child.

"Welcome aboard, Captain Kirk," she said in a surprisingly low voice, catching him by surprise. "I apologize for snatching you out of space like that, but our communications array has been damaged. Deliberately, I'm afraid. And I really needed you here."

"Me?"

"Well," she chuckled. "Not you necessarily. But someone from Starfleet."

She spoke in a harsh, labored rhythm as if fighting to get each word out. She made no attempt to rise.

"Would you mind telling me what this is all about?" Kirk demanded. He found it difficult to be angry at someone at this state, and that annoyed him. After all, the actions this strange group had undertaken were undeniably hostile. "How did you know who I am? Who are you? What happened to your crew?"

She smiled vaguely, resting her head at the high back of her chair.

"Patience, Captain. I will explain," she lifted her hand to the bruise on her neck automatically and massaged it lightly. "My name is Liman Perrell. I am, so to speak, the captain of this vessel. We are the _Nailers_. Or rather we were."

"What does that mean?" Kirk snapped.

"Before I explain, Captain, I need you to watch this," she nodded to the monitor to her right. A light was blinking indicating a recorded message. "This was sent ten minutes ago from the planet Lericon II."

"Why should I do what you want?"

She locked gazes with him determinedly, and he realized he was wrong. Young she might have been, but she was definitely not a child. Children don't have this steely, cool quality to their gazes, nor this indifference of a dead person.

"Because there are lives at stake here," she replied evenly. "Some three hundred of them, if I got Kramer correctly."

The name pushed him to action. He glanced again around the still silent Bridge to make certain there was no threat coming, while his attention would be occupied elsewhere. Nodding to Sulu slightly, he activated playback.

He didn't know it, but his reaction to what he was seeing matched Spock's to the precise second when he muted the audio. Looking over his shoulder, Sulu was breathing heavily as if he had just completed a marathon. Perrell turned the sound back on to allow them to listen to Kramer's words.

Kirk stared at her, as the screen went blank.

"And I thought Miraxine was your crown achievement. What kind of—" he cut himself short abruptly, taking a deep breath. When he looked at her again, he was in complete control. "Why are you showing me this? If you are the _Nailers_ , why aren't you there, helping this maniac?"

"Captain," she sighed. "This maniac was never supposed to be our leader. None of this was ever meant to happen—not Miraxine and not this. We were a pacifist movement—"

" _Pacifist_?" Sulu exclaimed, outraged. "You call that—pacifist?"

"Please, Captain, hear me out," Perrell said, rising up to her feet with difficulty. "I shall give you control of this ship so that you can go and stop him, but you must know what you're up against. Hear me out, that's all I'm asking."

Kirk measured her up with a calculating gaze. He was barely controlling his fury and his urge to knock the lights out of her, but he also knew that she had control of the ship. His training had withstood worse ordeals. He nodded curtly, not trusting his voice.

"We were a pacifist movement. We were maybe three or four hundred people, bound to the Solar System. All we wanted was for humans to pay closer attention to their own culture, their roots. Ever since the first NX project was launched, generation after generation had only had one dream in mind—space. We wanted to remind people that there were still challenges and treasures at their own doorstep. We were harmless, Captain. We handed out leaflets and occasionally organized a public meeting, but that was all. I bet you've never even heard of us, before the attack on Perumont III."

Reluctantly, Kirk nodded.

"That's because we weren't worth mentioning. Until Kramer came. He... changed us. He spoke of alien threat, of coercion and contamination. He said that we should fight back, eradicate the evil. He branded us with these tattoos," she wrinkled her nose in disgust. "And that's when we lost control over what was happening. Have you heard of people with heightened Esper abilities?"

Kirk winced and nodded curtly.

"Well, Kramer's rating is off the scale. He can control whatever mind he comes in contact with, projecting his own evil desires. He is mad, Captain. I have never known a mind so sick. I don't know how he was not detected before any of this had happened. He did say once that he used to be just as blind as we all, but then one day he saw the light of truth. Maybe something happened to him to account for this change, I don't know.

"He is mad. He hates all things nonhuman, and his hatred is..." she shivered, "is crushing. We have all felt it, lived with it for over a year, as it was slowly poisoning us, all of us. Through our tattoos."

"Tattoos?" Kirk stared at her astounded. "But how—?"

She pursed her lips.

"We used to have a leader. A man to whom we all listened. A great man, a visionary. I became a _Nailer_ because of him. His name was Alexander Courage."

Kirk and Sulu exchanged a quick glance, and Perrell nodded curtly.

"I see you've heard of him. You destroyed his ship, after all. Alex was the only one of us who could occasionally resist the influence. He was very strong willed. At moments like those, he realized that what we had become was wrong. He wanted to get out, to quit. One of his moments of clarity happened right before Miraxine. And he—he cut out the tattoo, which he came to hate. That was when he knew what it was. A transceiver. A telepathic transceiver imprinted on each and every one of us to control us.

"Captain, the things we did on Miraxine..." her voice caught. "I have never in my life harmed any living creature. I used to faint in biology class. What I did there... I remember every detail. Every throat I cut, every heart I ripped out. It was as if I was transformed into a raging, wild beast, and I rejoiced in my frenzy. I can still feel it in me. I can't imagine myself doing any such thing, but I know I did. There's a lot of blood on my hands, of every color.

"Alex was too late in his discovery. All he managed before his ship was attacked was to tell me."

"Wait a minute," Kirk interrupted the horrific tale. "People with heightened Esper abilities are one thing. But this kind of mind controlling technology is quite another. Earth doesn't have anything remotely like it. Now, I can see you had friends," he indicated the ship around them. "This ship is Romulan, isn't it?"

"Yes," she confirmed. "An old Romulan light cruiser. They gave us three. Our actions were aimed at disturbing the balance on which the Federation was built. Romulans were highly motivated to help us. Kramer had made contact with them somehow, and they jumped to the opportunity."

"I can understand that," Kirk said. "It's only logical, after all. Humans are the basis of the Federation. If we suddenly turned against everyone else... Yes, that's reasonable. In fact, my First Officer had stated clearly in his report that you were undoubtedly getting help. But, Ms. Perrell, we had dealings with the Romulans before. They are devious and cunning. But they don't have this kind of technology, either."

"Remans do."

The word echoed strangely through his mind.

"Who?"

"Remans," she repeated. "There had been rumors for years about the Romulan sub-race. They are said to possess telepathic powers, which supersede Vulcans by far. The Romulans exploit them, but they fear them because of these powers."

Kirk contemplated this for a while. It sounded so far-fetched that he would have dismissed it instantly, if not for one thing. A memory was tickling at the periphery of his mind.

Spock didn't like to talk about Romulans. He, as every other Vulcan Kirk knew, regarded them as a failure on the part of the Vulcan people. Spock had never volunteered to discuss the subject, but Kirk had come to know his friend too well over the years. He could see that despite the feelings of shame and rejection, Spock was strangely drawn to his 'distant brothers' at the same time. Kirk was appalled when he had realized it for the first time, but after his visit to the Mirror Universe, he thought he understood the nature of this pull.

Romulans were what Vulcans would have become had they rejected the teachings of Surak too. Vulcans had always said that their own ungoverned passions would have caused their extinction, but Romulans survived. Not only did they survive, they had built a formidable star empire. And Spock's counterpart had shown Kirk quite clearly that his friend would have done extremely well in such ominous reality.

Among the few conversations they had had on the subject over the years, Kirk remembered one that had taken place shortly after the Babel conference. His father told him, and Spock mentioned it to Kirk, that V'Shar, Vulcan Intelligence, had leaked some rumors about the second main planet of the Romulus star system, Remus, and its inhabitants. There had been no concrete information apart from those rumors, but that conversation had prevented Kirk from dismissing Perrell's words as a fairytale.

"Captain," Sulu called softly, and Kirk turned to him. "If this is true, if Romulans gave Kramer these things, it means..."

"An invasion," Kirk nodded briskly. "I know."

"Maybe not an invasion, sir. A diversion more like. The Federation is a conglomerate of species glued together by humans. Vulcans and Andorians used to wage war against each other for centuries."

"Or Tellarites," Kirk said. "They were at war with everyone except humans."

"Or Bolians who were isolationists. They were all brought together by us. Romulans were never happy about it, were they? They wouldn't miss a chance to drive us apart, make us weaker."

"Divide et impera, is that what you're saying, Mr. Sulu?"

"Yes, sir. Imagine they had found a man, like Kramer, who hates aliens. They boost up his Esper abilities and give him the means to control a small group of people. And then, they sit back and watch what would happen."

"The debates in the Federation Council never cease," Kirk whispered. "And even a localized outbreak of violence against nonhumans might become that one stone that provokes an avalanche. Yes, Mr. Sulu. I see what you mean," he glanced up at Perrell suspiciously. "If what she's saying is true."

The young woman was watching him closely.

"I understand your doubts, Captain," she said with a small sigh. "But if you examine any of us, you'll discover physiological evidence of my words, as I have. Yes," she smiled sadly, "I haven't always been a disruptive element. I studied xenobiology in depth; I was going to become a scientist. I joined the _Nailers_ only because of Alex. I was in love with him, you see. And if Maryann didn't want him..."

One of the men at the aft station stirred and moaned loudly. Instinctively, the three of them glanced at his direction.

"What's wrong with them?" Kirk asked again. "Or with you, for that matter?"

"The tattoos, Captain. As soon as Alex got the word to me, I got rid of mine, while I was clearheaded enough to do it," she indicated the bruise on her neck. "But it's not that simple. Kramer had been controlling us for so long that when I got free, I nearly drowned in all kinds of withdrawal symptoms. I don't know how I managed to survive. I'm in command here, so I found a way to stall the ship, when Kramer ordered us to Lericon. I stunned my crew, one by one. I destroyed the transceivers. I don't know how long it will take them to come back to their senses, if they do at all. Rachel there is dead," she indicated somewhere down and to the left. "So is Malik. That's why I seized your shuttle, Captain. They need help. And Kramer should be stopped."

"My ship was targeted, wasn't it?" Kirk asked abruptly. "That's how you knew who I am. Why?"

Perrell laughed sardonically, sinking back into her chair.

"Really, Captain Kirk. If you don't know the scale of your own publicity, you haven't been home for too long. You are supposed to be Starfleet's finest, and you don't even know how Starfleet is using you. Captain, you and your First Officer are dragged under the spotlights every time Starfleet needs to show its love for diversity. Commander Spock is the highest ranking nonhuman in the fleet. Starfleet never fails to emphasize that its 'best command team' consists of the members of two different species. You have become some sort of a banner, if you please. Even your friendship is paraded every time the tempers in the Council Chamber rise. Believe me, Captain. For anyone who opposes close associations with nonhumans, you and your ship would be the primary—hell, the only target."

"And if we talk about external threats, Captain," Sulu added, frowning in thought, "if the Romulans are really behind this... It was you who signed the peace treaty with the Gorn. Yours and Mr. Spock's interference made the Klingons sign a peace treaty on Organia. It was you and Mr. Spock, who—" he stopped abruptly and blushed, but Kirk didn't need him to continue.

"—who stole the cloaking device from the Romulans," the Captain said grumpily. "Seems like by making friends, we made quite a lot of enemies."

"My grandfather used to say that a man who had no enemies was no man at all," Sulu noted.

Kirk shot him a sarcastic look.

"Thank you, Mr. Sulu, that's incredibly reassuring. How would your grandfather estimate having a whole star empire, maybe two, against you?"

Sulu shrugged nonchalantly.

"He'd say you did pretty well."

Kirk shook his head.

"I need to get back to my ship."

"Well, my ship is your ship," Perrell said tiredly. "Obviously my crew is in no condition to help you, but we should be able to make it by ourselves. None of us were trained in starship operations, Captain. Most of the controls are on automation here. Alex used to run his ship differently, but then, he used to be a Starfleet cadet, too."

"Mr. Sulu, check the helm and the sensors," Kirk ordered. "Ms. Perrell, we need to remove your people. If you would help me."

"Certainly."

She rose to her feet to go past him, but he caught her elbow.

"You realize you'd be facing a trial on Earth," he said quietly, looking down in her eyes. "Maybe you weren't responsible for your actions, but you'll have to prove it. You have viciously murdered a great number of innocent people."

"I know, Captain," she responded in her dead quiet voice. "But if we don't hurry up, this number will grow for another three hundred. Let's just do it."

He nodded, and followed her to the outer circle of the Bridge to clear the working space. Watching her sparse, mechanical movements, listening to frequent moans and mutters of the suffering people, Kirk thought that if Liman Perrell lived long enough to face her trial, he wouldn't want to be in her shoes.

But even less, he thought, he would want to be the one judging her crime.

 

 

\--

He miscalculated.

That didn't happen to him often, but sometimes it did. He was, after all, only Vulcan. Half-Vulcan to be precise. Half-human. Which part was in error?

Both.

Neither.

Perhaps it was the time to stop looking for the part of him to assign the blame, and simply acknowledge his mistake. It would be arrogant to think that he would always be right.

Getting to Kramer was relatively easy.

Spock beamed down with four Security guards just outside the settlement perimeter. The guards were Giotto's idea.

' _If I am to lose a senior officer on my last field mission, I want to at least be able to defend myself at the hearing.'_

Spock didn't argue. Time was short. He assigned the guards to make a quick survey of the settlement. Their report raised more questions than it gave answers.

There were no patrols at the borders. The _Nailers_ appeared quiet, almost tranquil, and—indifferent. The miners were mostly engaged in drinking and toasting.

Spock couldn't understand this. Granted, they had suppressed all resistance inside the camp. But did they really expect the Federation to do nothing? Or, even more incredible, to actually bow to their demands? Spock found this trail of thought incomprehensible. But then, there was the evidence. And whatever the reason was, it played right into his hands.

The hour that Kramer had given the Federation to comply was almost up. Spock ordered the guards to stay outside the perimeter and plunged into the zone. He was dressed in some unexpressive dark clothing, for it was clear that his sky-blue Science shirt would have stood out like a torch in the darkness. This murky, depressing planetoid knew nothing of the bright clean colors—or feelings. Spock tightened his shields as best he could, but the concentration of gloomy hopelessness spiked now heavily with rage and insane mean joy was so thick that it rendered his natural defenses almost completely useless.

He made his way on slowly, from building to building, lurking in shadows, moving too fluidly and swiftly to be detected. It wasn't hard to calculate where the hostages were held, and Kramer, Spock knew, would be near them. He would want to drink at their fear, to ravish their dread. Their pleas would be celestial music to his ears. Their curses—his ambrosia.

Somewhere between the half-inborn, half-imprinted instinctive routine look—check—look—move—look, he wondered faintly when he had become such an expert on unhealthy minds. For a moment, McCoy's sarcastic smirk appeared before his eyes, and Spock shooed it away hastily. He couldn't afford to be distracted.

McCoy was quiet in the Transporter Room. Spock kept glancing at him, half-expecting him to say something, if not start yelling again, but he didn't. The Doctor remained somber and silent, and he didn't even look at Spock that much. Only when Spock had given the order to energize did their eyes meet. So eloquent and charged was the human's gaze that Spock was momentarily taken aback, before the dematerialization haze had engulfed him.

He wasn't ready for this.

For a moment, he was seized by an illogical impulse to stop the transport, step down and... What? Reassure? Answer in kind? Beg for forgiveness?

He didn't know.

That open, baring, screaming gaze told him quite clearly that McCoy did not expect to see him alive ever again.

And at that moment, he felt scared.

He had so rarely allowed himself to actually experience emotions as they came to him, instead of suppressing them to be dealt with later, that it took him a while to recognize his fear; and then, another while to discern what he was afraid of. Certainly not the mere loss of life. Such regret would not only be illogical, but arrogant to an extent, which was completely alien to him.

No, it was the instant realization that the extinguishing of that one light, insignificant in itself, would cause a number of other lights to flicker. The lights he cared about. The lights he didn't want to ever fade away.

He wasn't ready for this.

He didn't expect this, and he most certainly didn't need it at a time like this. It was vital that he would concentrate on the task at hand, and he didn't need to have to fight for that concentration. With Jim's whereabouts and condition unknown, he was distracted enough as it was.

Look. Check. Look. Move. Look.

There it was, the main building. The only one in the settlement large enough to contain three hundred people. Spock glanced to his left and felt the breath catch in his throat. He knew that the site of fire should be somewhere close—the smell was overwhelmingly heavy in the moist air, and still he was caught off guard.

There were, of course, no bodies left, just the blackened naked poles remained standing. It was not an easy sight to bear, not even for a Vulcan.

Spock focused his attention on the main building. His way to this point had been relatively easy, but how was he to proceed from here? The entrance was guarded by a dozen men, _Nailers_ and miners. During several minutes that he spent watching, they showed no inclination of going anywhere. Logically, he had to search for another exit, before trying to force his way in, but the time was running short, so short...

Spock heard a cry and turned to define its source. Four _Nailers_ were escorting five prisoners towards the entrance: three Andorians, a Bolian and a small Tellarite, a child no older than ten. The child was crying.

"Hey," one of the guards at the entrance stopped the gloomy train. He looked the hostages over in turn and sneered. "Looks like we're going to have a nice color contrast."

"That furry brat doesn't fit," one of the convoy guards complained. "Not blue, see."

"Kramer won't be happy."

"There wasn't time to search for another blue-skin. I bet its fur's gonna kindle rather fast, though."

The child wailed in fear, making futile attempts to get free. The guards laughed. The adult prisoners stood silent. Their faces wore definite signs of beatings, and it was obvious that they had learnt their lesson of mute compliance.

Spock suddenly knew what he had to do. There was no time and no other way to get in. Logically, of course, this was too risky. Too many things were undefined and could go wrong...

Disregarding them, seized by a pang of intuition, he stepped forward, letting his hood slide back.

"Take me instead," he said loud enough for them to spin around. "Green would make a better contrast with fire than brown."

"What the hell—"

"Take him!"

He was shoved forward and searched, roughly and efficiently, but, as he had dropped both his phaser and his communicator back behind his cover, they found nothing.

"How did we miss him?" one guard asked the others. "I thought you searched the whole damned town."

"What do you mean—'you' searched? _We_ searched. He must have been hiding somewhere, haven't you, Vulcan?"

"All right, let's go," the leader cut the argument briskly. "Take them all to Kramer. The kid, too. Move."

Spock was about to object, but the disruptor barrel shoved roughly under his chin made him reconsider. He didn't expect them to agree anyway. Only hoped that they would...

Since when had he become so susceptible to the illogic of feeling hope?

He felt a small hand at his wrist and winced at the contact, nearly jumping. It had been eons since he had reacted thus to a casual contact. But the child was terrified, and his shielding appeared to be impaired to a formidable degree. It was logical to provide comfort to those in need, and Spock wished he could do it, but the rational truth was he couldn't afford any additional strain on his already dangerously weakened armor. Not if he still planned on defeating Kramer in a battle of wills.

Those thoughts, however, only came to him later. He jerked his hand away instinctively, before they even registered. Holding the boy's hand was simply painful, as if he touched white-hot steel.

The child sobbed at the rejection, giving way to his terror and agony, and Spock felt the pain wash over him. He fought to regain his composure, trying to calculate how much he could endure if he took the boy's hand.

Before he could do so, however, one of the Andorians reached for the boy, pulling him close. Spock met the Andorian's gaze briefly, expecting scorn and resentment. What he saw was compassion and understanding. He bowed his head slightly in gratitude. The Andorian nodded back.

It was unimaginable now, Spock thought vaguely, as they were led through an enfilade of corridors, that only a century or so go such sensitivity between an Andorian and a Vulcan would have been impossible. On a historic scale, the change came in about a minute. People like Kramer, who aimed to destroy this change, in Spock's view deserved no sympathy.

They entered a gloomy, sparsely furnished room, which obviously was used as Kramer's residence. He turned to survey the hostages, lined up by the guards for his inspection. He nodded softly to each and every one of them, as he proceeded along the line, until he came to a stop before Spock.

"Commander Spock. I was expecting you."

His voice sounded surprisingly mild, unlike what they had heard during the transmission. His eyes were unnervingly impenetrable, as he stared at the Vulcan in blunt appraisal.

"Expecting?" Spock raised an eyebrow. The fact that Kramer knew him on sight brought little comfort.

"Well," the _Nailer_ intoned blandly. "Hoping more like. I knew the _Enterprise_ was in the area. And I knew you wouldn't be able to resist coming after me. I have no objections. You see, some of my associates still dwell on a misguided aberration that Vulcans have superior mind power. But you and I both know different. And you will help me prove it," his tone, treacherously soft and gentle before, turned to icy, as he barked over his shoulder. "Leave us. Prepare those monsters for the fire show."

The other _Nailers_ obeyed instantly. Clearly, Kramer did not forgive lapses in discipline. In a moment, they were alone.

"How would you like to proceed?" Kramer asked the Vulcan, eyeing him with distinct distaste mixed with a certain glee of a challenge. "Your people mind-meld, don't they?"

Spock nodded, watching him warily.

"Well," Kramer smiled with mean triumph. "You're welcome to try."

In that very moment, Spock realized he had made a mistake. Obviously, Kramer was ready for him, was even expecting him—and he was ready for a meld. There must be some piece of the puzzle that eluded Spock, the Vulcan realized. Some factor, which he didn't include in his calculations. Something that made Kramer this certain in his abilities.

What was he missing?

A wise strategist would have retreated to regroup. Spock knew he didn't have that option. It was clear that he would not be allowed to walk out of this room without satisfying Kramer's wishes. He would have to take part in that meld, he didn't have a choice.

"Go ahead," Kramer nodded to him, smirking confidently. "Or we'll miss the fireworks."

Spock braced himself and plunged in.

The moment he entered Kramer's mind he knew what was wrong. He knew, but it was too late. Too late to try and warn the _Enterprise_. Too late to withdraw. It was too late for them, and most certainly too late for him. The only reason why he didn't cry out was that he had no strength left to do so. His efforts, his powers, his shields—all crushed under the simple, predictable, obvious truth, which Spock failed to see before and which now would be the reason for his annihilation in more devastating meaning than the death of the body.

Kramer was not alone.


	23. Into the Fire

"There she is, Mr. Scott!" Chekov exclaimed, bending over the scanners. "Just where you thought it would be."

The Engineer glanced at the viewscreen with a frown.

"Are ye certain, lad?"

"Positive," Chekov nodded, stepping down to his own station. "It's the _Nailers'_ ship, all right. Their cloak is fluctuating... There, did you see this? We've got them, sir!"

Indeed, the cloak on the hostile seemed to fail completely, and it was now in plain sight.

"Hail them, Lieutenant," Scott sent over his shoulder.

"I'm only reading four life signs aboard," Chekov reported. "All human. The rest of them must be down there."

"They're not acknowledging our hails, Mr. Scott," Uhura shook her head, frowning in concentration. "I'm getting nothing at all from them."

"Had they all gone to sleep?" McCoy wondered, leaning over the command chair's arm.

"If so, we might as well wake them up, Doctor," Scott replied grimly. "Lieutenant—"

"Mr. Scott! Look! They're moving!"

The hostile had suddenly made a wild lurch, then began to unmistakably turn towards the _Enterprise_.

"What in blazes are they doing?"

"Locking weapons on us," Chekov noted incredulously.

"Shields up," Scott ordered briskly. "Red Alert. Mr. Chekov, target their engines. Uhura, hail them again. Tell them to stand down or we'll destroy them."

"Are you sure we can do that?" McCoy asked quietly. "Last I heard you said we were in bad shape."

"Aye," Scott nodded gravely. "But _they_ don't know that."

"Keptin, they're firing!" Chekov warned.

"Helm, evasive actions."

But the blast hit them anyway, making the deck do a crazy lurch under their feet.

"I'm sorry, sir," Farrell said, trying to steady the ship's position. "She's sluggish."

"Shields down to twenty percent, Mr. Scott."

The Engineer pressed his lips together tightly.

"Any answer to our hails, Lieutenant?"

"Negative, Mr. Scott. They're ignoring us."

The _Enterprise_ was hit again, this time considerably harder.

"Very well," Scott uttered, grabbing the chair's arm for support. "Ensign, return fire."

"Mr. Scott, the target lock is fused—"

"Then fire at anything that moves, Ensign! We can't continue to take this kind of pounding."

"Aye, sir! Firing phasers!"

It wasn't clear whether Chekov's aim was that good, or was it that the cloaking device wasn't the only system that was malfunctioning on the hostile, but it was over in a moment.

"Their reactor is supercritical," Chekov intoned, aghast. "They're going to—"

"Sweet heavens..." McCoy muttered, watching in awe the magnificent explosion.

The _Enterprise_ shook one last time, as the shockwaves hit her, and then fell silent.

"Try to raise the landing party, Lieutenant," Scott said in a defeated, tired voice.

"I can't, sir," she reported in disbelief, checking one panel after another. "The jamming field is still in place."

"What?" McCoy exclaimed, bewildered. "But we've destroyed the ship!"

"I know, Doctor. Obviously the source of the jam is somewhere else."

"Aye, and I even know where," Scott grunted.

They all turned back towards the viewscreen and gasped. A Romulan warbird had just decloaked directly in front of them. There was no time to be shocked.

"They're charging weapons," Chekov noted grimly.

"Romulans this far from the Neutral Zone?" McCoy shook his head in astonishment. "Did I sleep through a war declaration or something?"

"Not to my knowledge, Doctor," Uhura replied quietly. "We're not going to make it, Mr. Scott, are we?"

Scott felt his lips stretch in a humorless dark smirk. For a moment, the universe had stopped its expansion, allowing him to experience an instant of total clarity.

All of a sudden, it had all started to make sense. The cloaking devices on the _Nailers'_ ships. The very fact that those pathetic people even had ships. The inhuman cruelty of the assaults and their surgical precision.

The _Nailers_ weren't alone. The Romulans were the shadowy puppeteer, the mind behind the muscle.

But that was only half of the revelation. The other half brought such a bitter taste to his mouth that he wanted to spit.

The Command's insistence that the _Enterprise_ would remain the only ship in the area. The complete disregard of the fact that they had been already severely crippled. The task force that should arrive in a week. The unbelievably callous order not to try and rescue the hostages.

Command knew.

Of course, they knew. Must have known for a long time. It was a set up, all of this was a set up. To provoke the Romulans to reveal themselves. This far from the Neutral Zone, it was a clear violation of the treaty. It meant either an outbreak of war, one for which the Romulans weren't ready, or whatever the Federation would want in retribution for tempering with its internal affairs.

They had purposefully left here one ship. The one ship that the Romulans couldn't possibly resist attacking upon seeing this crippled. They were the bait, and the bait had worked.

It was the gambit and counter-gambit, and the _Enterprise_ was no more than a pawn, exchanging hands, as the players fought for dominance.

Anger boiled up in his chest, rising up his throat, threatening to strangle him. Anger and betrayal. The very fact that Command had used his ship as a decoy was maddening enough, but that Scott could have lived with. They were soldiers, after all, sworn in to protect the Federation. If drawing fire onto themselves was what needed to be done, they would have been willing to do it.

But not blindly.

Not without a word. Not in total and deliberate ignorance, as if Command hadn't trusted them with the truth. Hadn't all their years of service been enough to prove their worth? Hadn't they earned the right to die with their eyes open? Knowing exactly what they were dying for, rather than losing everything without ever guessing what hit them? That old fox Nogura, who had probably slept with a tome of Bushido under his pillow, how could he have ever allowed that to happen?

Scott jerked his head upwards, shaking off his momentary daze. It was time to show that this pawn had had enough of its master's directions.

"If we're not going to make it, lass," Scott growled through gritted teeth, "they aren't going to make it either. I'll be damned if I let us go quietly. Sound that alert again. All hands to battle stations."

There was a general murmur of agreement across the Bridge, as they sensed his heartfelt conviction.

They had practically no shields, no warp drive, minimal phasers and an upload of torpedoes not meant for close detonation. The helm was sluggish, controls fused, and they had no communications. They had also a fully operational Romulan warbird opening fire on them. They were a doomed vessel, but there was not a single person on board who was willing to try and back away from the fight.

They were a good crew.

They were the best.

In the total havoc that ensued, there was hardly any time for Scott to continue his dark train of thought. If he had that time, he would have probably realized that Starfleet Command hadn't meant to be this dishonest. But that was the one thing that none of them had in abundance.

Time.

There was no time to warn, no time to explain. Unknown to the _Enterprise_ , the task force was only three days away, and it was still losing its battle with time too. He would have realized that Starfleet Command had simply seized the only chance they had. That it hadn't been an easy decision, but they didn't have any time to agonize over it.

He never quite got there.

Yelling orders at the top of his lungs, he could barely spare any time for breathing, and that was it. They were going to lose, and he knew it, had known it from the start, but refused to give up.

And for a moment it seemed like, despite the ominous chances, their courage and stoicism had prevailed. But then, Scott's heart sank, as Chekov shouted hoarsely, wiping blood from an open cut on his forehead, "There's another one, Mr. Scott! It's charging weapons!"

And they froze.

Uhura. Chekov. McCoy. Farrell. Scott. Leslie.

Half a dozen others.

They froze, staring at the viewscreen, in the dim lights and splashes of disruptor fire. They were looking at another ship that had sealed their fate and felt that, at the end, life itself had cheated them.

And then, the second Romulan ship opened fire and destroyed the wounded warbird in one spectacular swift sweep.

 

 

\--

"Thanks for holding her together!" were Kirk's first words, as he sprang down from the transporter pad and gripped Scotty's shoulders.

The Engineer nodded grimly.

"Aye."

"How bad is it?"

Scott clasped his hands behind his back.

"We're on auxiliary power, and I'm not guaranteeing it's gonna hold for long. We need a new warp coil, or at least four anti-matter boosters if we ever want to get outta here under our own power. If Starfleet doesn't send someone to get us, we might as well beam down and make camp."

Kirk nodded sympathetically. He knew very well what this kind of admission must have cost his Chief Engineer.

"I know you did everything you could, Scotty. If any of us get through this, I'm putting you in for a commendation."

The corner of Scott's mouth twitched, as if he was literally biting back a curse, but he managed to hold it.

"Where's Spock?" Kirk asked, letting go of him.

McCoy shot an uneasy glance at Scott. Kirk looked from one to the other, and his face closed.

"Don't tell me, let me guess."

"Jim—"

"He's down there, isn't he? Of all the stupid things—" he cut himself off midword. "Mr. Scott."

"Captain."

"Assemble the senior staff in whatever room we have available. Someone here has a lot of explaining to do."

Involuntarily, both Scott and McCoy glanced at the woman, who had beamed aboard with Kirk. The Captain had failed to this moment to explain her presence.

"I need at least twenty people to be beamed back to that ship to Mr. Sulu," Kirk continued, heading out. "And, Doctor, any medical personnel you can spare, too. There're about a hundred... incapacitated people."

"Aye, Captain."

Scott hurried in the opposite direction, while McCoy caught up with Kirk.

"Listen, Jim—"

"I'm not sure I want to."

"You know about the hostages."

"Yes, I know about the hostages, Doctor. I daresay I know more about them than any of you."

"Jim, Spock thought it was the only way to save them."

"How? By single-handedly overpowering over five hundred armed people?"

"He wanted to get to Kramer, to enforce a meld on him. He thought—"

Kirk stopped abruptly, as if thrown back by an invisible obstacle.

" _He what?_ " he glared at McCoy incredulously. " _A mind-meld?_ "

"He thought it was the only way," the Doctor repeated breathlessly. "Is it?"

Kirk didn't answer. He made an unsteady circle between the walls, then slammed his fist into a bulkhead hard and remained immobile.

"Jim," McCoy called cautiously.

"Was he a friend of yours as well, Doctor?" the woman asked him blandly.

The past tense cut through him like a razor blade.

"I am his friend. Why?"

"I'm sorry," she said. "Surely you realize that he's already dead?"

"Who the hell are you to say things like that?" McCoy's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Jim," he placed a hand on Kirk's shoulder firmly. "Jim, don't listen to her. We've been through this before, countless times. You know Spock. He's too smart to—"

"I can't feel him, Bones," Kirk turned to him slowly, rubbing his forehead.

McCoy took a step back.

"But you said it yourself, he's been blocking you."

"Then, I'd be feeling a block, wouldn't I?" Kirk sounded beat.

"Jim..."

Kirk straightened up forcibly, his jaw line set.

"Enough. I don't have time for this and neither do you. How many casualties do we have?"

It took McCoy only a split second to slip back into his professional mode.

"Two dead, nineteen wounded. Three of those are critical. All things considered, it could have been much worse."

"You need to be there?"

"Not if you need me for the briefing. M'Benga and Suarez can handle it, and Chris can take a team to that other ship."

"You're sure she's good enough?"

McCoy folded his arms across his chest.

"Are you questioning your CMO's decisions, Captain? She'd be better than I am, any day now."

"Maybe I should call her to that briefing then," Kirk shook his head. "Let's go."

He watched as his officers filled into the room one by one, all bearing signs of the recent struggle with death. There were no confused or perplexed faces. These people had faced mortal danger many times before, despite the fact that some of them were still very young. This crew was in a way a greater asset to Starfleet than the _Enterprise_ herself, Kirk thought. He only wished Command would have acknowledged it.

"Liman?" Chekov stopped at her chair, eyes wide with shock.

Well, at least he didn't lose his capacity to be surprised, Kirk mused somewhat bitterly.

"It's good to see you," she said softly, before averting her eyes.

He stared at her for another moment, then took his seat, without another word. Kirk nodded inwardly his approval.

He began with introducing Perrell and retelling her story briefly.

"This makes our current dilemma much worse," he concluded, looking over his officers. "We don't have three hundred hostages down there, we have five hundred. The _Nailers_ are manipulated by Kramer, they are not responsible for their actions."

He paused, gauging their reaction. A lot of frowns and no questions. He took a deep breath.

"Let's drop the ranks for a moment."

They all looked up at him at once, clearly surprised. A sympathetic smile crossed his lips, fleeting and almost undetectable.

"I need your help," he said simply. "But for that help, I can't ask you as captain of the _Enterprise_. As captain of the _Enterprise_ , I'm under strict orders not to interfere until the special task force arrives."

"In a week," Scott spat.

Kirk nodded.

"There are five hundred people down there, half of which will die a terrible death by that time, while the other half will be forced into murdering them. The man responsible for Talouba, Perumont III and Miraxine is also down there. We also have a Security detail down there. And—"

His voice caught, and Uhura decided to save him the trouble.

"And Spock."

He glanced at her sharply, and she stared right back, almost in a challenge. Kirk nodded curtly.

"That's right. I can't ask you to defy orders. The Commissioner there," he pointed at Sudak sitting quietly in the corner, "is itching to remind you of the consequences of such an act. But I don't believe any of you need those reminders. If you follow me, your careers might very well be over."

"That is assuming anyone's coming back," Giotto grunted.

"My, aren't we a bloody ray of sunshine?" McCoy shot in his direction.

"The chances aren't high, Doctor."

"Well, if ye don't come back, ye won't have to be worried about yer career, would ye?" Scott noted grumpily.

"Commander Giotto is right," Kirk broke into the argument. "I'm not only asking you to risk your career, but to risk your lives. More than that, I'm asking you to order the people under your command to do the same. I want you all to understand very clearly that I have no authority, nor any moral right to be asking this of you. I'm doing it anyway."

"Well, you don't have to ask me, Captain," Uhura was the first to break the silence. "I volunteer."

"So do I," Chekov ventured quickly.

"I'll have you know," Giotto said evenly, "that I have Security teams standing by to beam down this very moment."

"Not so fast," Scott cut him off dryly. "They outnumber us almost two to one. We can't just beam down there. We need to come up with a plan."

"Do you have any idea how to block the transceivers?" McCoy asked Perrell. "If we could at least knock down the _Nailers_..."

Kirk closed his eyes, leaning on the back of his chair heavily. He listened to the heated discussion, ready to jump in, as the moment of strange euphoria came over him.

He was swayed by his affection for these people.

The wave of overpowering gratitude and sheer adoration washed over him, making him momentarily dizzy. He wasn't supposed to feel this way about his crew. He was their Captain. He was supposed to make the decisions for them, and he was supposed to make the right ones. He was supposed to give orders, not ask for advice.

But at this very moment, he realized, without a shade of a doubt, that despite the fact that he was leading them, they were in this together. As a team.

As a crew.

He had always known that he could rely on them, but when the moment to test it actually came, he discovered he wasn't ready for the full measure of trust and support he had received. And all of a sudden it made him feel so very special, because he knew that these professional, smart, proud people would not have given him either, had he stood for the wrong cause.

It had almost made his pain at Spock's absence bearable.

Almost.

Because in the back of his mind, he could feel a dark void opening, threatening to pull him in and never let go.

He stopped that train of thought determinedly, and reached for the threads of the discussion being held in front of him to curl them tightly around his fist.


	24. The Last Temptation

The sensation did not come as completely unfamiliar.

This had happened to him once before. More than once, to a lesser extent. His mind had been invaded by a merciless intruder who sought to hold him in full control.

Admittedly, Kramer was the worst. Intrusive as the mind sifter was, it was only a machine. An automated torturer, lacking personality and ill intent. Just doing what it was programmed to do. This was a living human mind and it was like nothing Spock had encountered before. Nothing like he expected.

There was a lot of hatred here; its black oily traces were everywhere. A lot of revulsion, uncontrollable anger, jealousy. But the man's personality appeared completely distorted. There was no evidence of willpower strong enough to focus the energy, which converted itself into terrible actions.

This man was incapable of being a leader of any kind, much less a visionary or revolutionary. He was a mediocre, little man who was supposed to spend his life with his head down. He had great ambition, but no means to back it up.

For a disorientating moment, Spock even wondered if he got the right man. Evil and malice came in all shapes and forms in this eclectic mind, but there was no will to control it, no power to direct it.

And then, Spock heard a door closing behind him, and a wave of evil triumph swept him, shattering his balance. Vaguely, he had felt a surge of pain from the outside, a physical sensation, as if someone grabbed him and pressed something hot to his neck. Then all connections were shut down.

' _G_ _ot you, demon. You are mine.'_

He was trapped.

In this chaotic ominous mosaic, laid by an insane artist, he could no longer find escape. What was worse, he was now feeling strong, highly focused pressure, which could not originate from within this shabby person. The pressure grew steadily stronger, and Spock began to discern the link feeding it, a thick channel, pumping with energy. His shields began to weaken and there was nothing he could do about it. He was drastically outmatched.

There was nowhere to run.

Suddenly, he was lying down, spread-eagled and restrained. An angel with a fiery sword and Kramer's face emerged from the gloom. Instinctively, Spock tried to block the illusion.

He couldn't.

' _Face the penance for your sins.'_

The sword had struck, slicing him from shoulder to hip, and he cried out in sharp pain.

Immediately, dozens of slimy little hands reached for the wound and dug into him, pulling his insides out, feeling them, tearing and ripping and twisting everything they could find. The sheer agony was overbearing. Spock could never imagine such pain to exist.

Maybe when those creatures had attacked him on Deneva...

And instantly a block came to his aid, extinguishing the flames of pain with welcoming coolness of melting snow.

The angel had vanished, but was immediately replaced by a herd of phantasmagoric creatures. Elephants, and giraffes, and horses, with legs ten times longer than they should have had. The animals were mad. Neighing and wailing, they rushed right at him. Still bound, he was unable to get out of their way.

Spock recognized the imagery. _The Temptation of St. Anthony_ , Dali's famous work. Surreal association formed in an insane mind.

' _You are not a saint, Kramer. You are a murderer.'_

In a swift blur of frenzy, washing over him like an acid shower, the animals were gone, and Kramer was over him, pressing him down with his hands deep in the reopened wound.

' _I am that what will cleanse my Earth from_ _alien demons! I am the vengeance of the angels! See them, demon! See them and die!'_

He bent over to his captive's face, and when their foreheads met, sharp burning pain blinded Spock.

And then, he was sinking even deeper into Kramer's mind, descending to the level of factual memories. What he saw was fascinating.

Kramer's life, such as it had been, insignificant and small, right until the moment he met 'the angels'. Spock witnessed the scene through Kramer's mind, but his vision was not impaired by insanity. He swept the veil of illusion away, and saw the faces of his enemies.

He had never seen this race before, but he recognized them. Some deep, gut instinct told him who they were. And as the vision faded, Spock saw the same faces on the other end of the link, and shuddered, as at that very moment, they had seen him too.

Kramer was gone, as if he was never even there.

Still immobile, restrained, Spock tried to summon all energy he had left, but he could see it was not enough. His shields snapped under pressure, and pure agony fell onto him like a stony waterfall. He was being pulled apart by thousands of hands, his memories, emotions, feelings and thoughts were being ripped from him, slowly, bit by bit, making him wriggle and squirm and yell, as his very self was being torn to pieces. There was no escape, no safe haven. There could be no help, no miraculous way to save himself. Yet, his consciousness was carefully maintained to allow him to witness, till the very last moment, his own disintegration.

Help was nowhere to come from. Except...

Kramer.

They were still within his mind.

And in a completely illogical surge of inspiration, born undeniably from despair, Spock stopped resisting. Instead, he reached for Kramer with what little strength he had left and, using the invaders' pull, plunged into the link.

They had not expected that, and they didn't have the time to stop him. On and on he slid, tugging Kramer along, until they saw clearly the faces of Spock's adversaries.

Alien, nonhuman, evil faces.

' _Look! There are your angels! You said you were going to cleanse the Earth from alien demons—but it was them who gave you the power!'_

' _No!'_

' _Yes! See their faces! Feel their minds! They want to take the Earth from you, stripping her from her allies! They want you to do it for them!'_

' _No!'_

' _Look! Look through the illusion! You must see!'_

And he knew Kramer did. Five Remans, who had not expected to be revealed, were hesitant one second too long to allow Kramer to see their real faces... and agenda.

Spock knew he had succeeded, when a hurricane of rage and blinding fury had whirled his exhausted mind, swiveling along the link, trembling, and yelling, and storming back.

' _Summon your angel, Kramer. Sever the link.'_

That was the last thought he could formulate before the darkness claimed him.

 

 

\--

The signal from the landing party came as a blessing, for now they didn't have to beam down blindly. Still, observing the gloomy disposition of the settlement, Kirk was far from feeling optimistic.

"Captain," Giotto came over soundlessly, like an apparition. "We've established the perimeter. But there are still four hundred of them, and only two hundred of us. If we don't knock the _Nailers_ off the field—"

"We're working on that," Kirk told him grimly. "How's it coming, Mr. Scott?"

The Engineer glanced up from his work, with an almost painful expression on his face.

"Captain, I have no idea if this is going to work. This is a wave amplifier, not some sneaky telepathic machine."

"It's the best we can hope for, Mr. Scott. McCoy provided you with the frequency, didn't he?"

"Aye, he provided me with that, all right. But if ye ask me, it's a wild goose chase. Brainwave patterns are unique like fingerprints. Since Doctor McCoy doesn't have the specific data on Kramer, we'd either end up knocking out half our own people, or no one at all."

"Come now, Mr. Scott. Give it the benefit of a doubt."

Scott shot him a very eloquent look and sighed.

"Aye."

"Why can't the _Enterprise_ just stun them from orbit?" Leslie asked, bewildered. "Sir."

"That'll be no good," Giotto shook his head. "The main building is shielded. So unless you want to fry up the hostages, stunning's not going to work."

"And if we stun the rest of them," Kirk added gloomily, "those _Nailers_ inside will have plenty of time to kill all the hostages."

"That's not very reassuring," Chekov muttered, leaning on the barrel of his rifle.

"It wasn't supposed to be. Are you ready, Scotty?"

The Engineer shrugged, looking openly skeptical.

"Time's not our problem, Captain. This thing will either work, or it won't. Another minute or another year won't make much of a difference."

"In that case, throw the switch."

"Aye."

The device he was handling started to hum monotonously, some of the indicators came alive.

"Well?" Kirk prompted impatiently.

"The beastie's working," Scott shrugged, staring at the control panel. "We're transmitting. Whether it's having an effect..."

"Commander, ask for perimeter reports."

"Yes, sir," Giotto pulled aside to call over his squad leaders.

"C'mon," Kirk muttered absently under his breath, not realizing he was doing it. "It has to work. It has to."

Scott looked at him sideways, but didn't say anything. Chekov pretended he hadn't heard anything at all.

"I'm sorry, Captain," Giotto pursed his lips in negation. "No change in the _Nailers'_ behavior reported."

Kirk was silent for a moment, then turned to his officers and smiled. It was not a pleasant smile.

"Well. I guess we'll have to make it the old-fashioned way then. You're up to it, Commander?"

"Give the word, Captain."

"Mr. Scott?"

"Aye. We've wasted enough time with this mumbo-jumbo."

"Then, shut it off. Let's—"

"Captain, look!" Leslie whispered urgently. "Something's happening to them!"

Kirk snatched the binocular from him almost faster than he had handed it, and stared at the settlement hungrily. All over the camp, the _Nailers_ were standing stock-still, as if frozen in mid-action. Even as Kirk watched, they slumped one by one to the ground, clutching their tattoos, obviously in pain.

"There, you see, Mr. Scott," Kirk grinned at the Engineer triumphantly. "All it takes is a little faith."

"Captain," Scott looked at him strangely. "The unit is offline. I shut it off, as ye told me to."

"But then," Chekov tilted his head in puzzlement, "what happened to them?"

In the silence that followed, Kirk's whisper sounded particularly harsh and sharp.

"Spock. He must have gotten to Kramer somehow."

The moment of hesitation had passed quickly. Kirk straightened up and turned to his officers, a model of determination.

"Gentlemen. Our chances of success have just doubled. Considering what they had been before, I suggest we don't wait any longer. Commander, move your teams in. Make sure they stun the _Nailers_ too—we can't know when they'll come to their senses."

"Yes, sir."

"All right, you've all seen the layout. Go."

It was not a fair fight.

Two hundred well-trained, seasoned Starfleet officers and crewmembers, some of whom had been through at least half a dozen military conflicts, like Scott, Kirk and Giotto, and some were young, but experienced and efficient, like Chekov, against three hundred tired and frustrated miners, many of whom had never held a weapon before. It was true that the weapons evened the chances. But only to a point. Military discipline was bound to prevail under these conditions, but the fights were rather fierce nonetheless, for the miners clearly believed they had nothing to lose.

And despair was a master in producing berserkers.

Kirk couldn't tell exactly how much time had passed since he gave the 'go.' The _Nailers_ remained inoffensive and completely dead to the world. If Liman was right, and it seemed to be the case, and Kramer really was their director, this could only mean that whatever Spock was doing, he was keeping him sufficiently occupied.

The thought brought Kirk very little comfort. He was far from being an expert on mind disciplines, but he knew enough to be feeling queasy at the prospect of Spock fighting with Kramer _and_ the Remans. Since the Romulan vessel had been destroyed, that threat must have been eliminated. But the question remained how much damage had been done by that time.

He was angry at Spock, but even more angry at himself. Going on the reconnaissance mission was a mistake. He should have been here, he should have stopped this from ever happening. If he didn't push the Vulcan hard enough, if he didn't provoke Spock by going on a mission he had no business of going, his friend wouldn't be risking his sanity and quite probably his life now. For all the logic and reason Spock possessed, Kirk couldn't quite shake off the impression that this was some kind of twisted revenge on his part.

It was his, Kirk's, fault this was happening the way it was. It shouldn't have been like that. At worst, he and Spock should have been fighting side by side now. They had done it before, and it always felt so right somehow. Kirk had never brought it up, wary of his own humanism and Spock's allegiance to the pacifist philosophy of Vulcan, but it felt right, so right. It always had.

He was fighting like this was his final battle. Oblivious to risks, mocking enemy fire. He fought without thinking. He was still a Starfleet officer, who measured strength and didn't kill just because he could, but his mind seemed to have been completely disengaged from the process. Where everyone else chose a zigzag pattern, he walked a straight line, not caring for field tactics or danger of being shot by a lucky, if not accidental blast.

From the corner of his eye, he sometimes caught a glimpse of his officers, fighting alongside him, covering his back. Scotty kept snapping in and out of his peripheral vision to his right, and Kirk wondered briefly where and when his Chief Engineer had learnt to be that good a soldier. Chekov was a fierce blur to his left. The ever-present sneer distorted his young face, and Kirk asked himself if the Ensign was a little bit too eager to avenge his late friend.

They missed Sulu in this fight, but one could never have everything.

When they stormed into the main building, literally blowing off the doors, they were greeted by the deafening triumphant cries of the hostages. Nearly three hundred people, who had never been this scared in their lives, had rejoiced at their liberation.

And only then did Starfleet officers noticed the bodies and realized what price their captors had paid. The hostages were only guarded by the _Nailers_. When they had slumped to the floor in pain, the crowd, frightened out of their wits, had mauled them. It was doubtful that the bodies would even be identifiable by anything but a sophisticated DNA test.

Kirk waved for Giotto to take charge of the former hostages, but the Captain himself lunged forward. What kind of instinct was leading him, he couldn't tell and didn't care, but followed it, smashing the doors and sweeping the rooms with stun rays.

There, at the end of another long corridor, stood the last door, and he forced it open, hardly slowing down for a moment. The four of them—himself, Scott, Chekov and Leslie—burst in, keeping their rifles at the ready. All four froze, as if struck, taking in the interior and the occupants.

Spock was standing at the wall, seemingly unharmed, but he failed to wince, turn or acknowledge their sudden appearance in any way. He was staring straight ahead and didn't move as if in some kind of trance. He didn't even seem to breathe.

Kramer stood nearby, apparently unarmed, and watched the unasked visitors warily, but calmly.

"Stay where you are or he dies," he snapped the moment Kirk made a step toward him.

Kirk froze, trying to slow down his racing pulse and assess the situation.

"Keptin, he doesn't even have a gun," Chekov whispered urgently.

As if in response, Kramer tilted his head slightly. Immediately, Spock's left hand shot up to his own shoulder and stopped in a position to perform a nerve pinch.

Or Tal'Shaya.

"If any of you move, I'll order him to kill himself," Kramer informed them pointedly. "I have him under complete control."

"How?" Scotty breathed out.

Kirk seemed to know the answer even before Kramer made his prisoner turn a little, and Chekov gasped in horror, "He's got a tattoo!"

"That's right," Kramer nodded. "And since you all seem to know what it means, I suggest you stay quiet and listen."

"What do you want?" Kirk asked very quietly.

Never in the years to come he could fathom or even remember how he had managed to stay in control in that moment. Spock stood right in front of him, but it was as if he wasn't even there. Kirk could see him, but he didn't feel him, on any level. The Vulcan couldn't even turn his head to look at him, couldn't call on him, couldn't do anything... And this, much more than the savage executions or the tortures, this had filled Kirk with such unspeakable rage and hatred that he could barely contain them within.

"I want out," Kramer said, without much ado. "I have a small ship outside the town. I want you," he pointed at Kirk, "to take me there. Once I'm in the upper atmosphere, I will release my hold on him."

An ominous silence fell upon the room.

"You can't do it, sir," Leslie blurted out finally. "He's responsible for numerous murders and possibly treason. Who's to say he won't do more? You can't let him go."

Kirk was silent. He continued to stare right at Kramer, feeling nothing, but an unidentifiable buzzing in his head.

"Lieutenant," he heard Scott's voice behind him. "Assist Commander Giotto with evacuation."

"Sir?"

"Ye heard me. In case I haven't made myself clear, I meant now."

The sound of hasty footsteps told Kirk the Lieutenant was out of the room.

"What's it going to be, Captain?" Kramer asked tiredly, watching him with diligent attention. "I offer you his life for mine. Don't you think it's fair?"

Fair, Kirk groaned inwardly. No, it was not fair. It was not fair to let a mass-murderer go in order to save his friend's life. It might have been debatable, if Spock was a civilian. But he wasn't. He was a Starfleet officer. He had the same duty to perform. When they had given their Oath to Starfleet, they had known that there might come a time when performing this duty would cost them their lives. Kirk had an obligation to the Federation, to the families of those tortured and burnt people, to their very memories. He had an obligation to bring the man responsible for these crimes to trial. He had an obligation to expose Romulan interference, and that, too, required bringing Kramer to Starfleet Headquarters. He had an obligation not to allow a man like Kramer to continue his perverse mean practices. He could not allow Kramer to cause more deaths.

He had an obligation.

He closed his eyes and tried to convince himself he must fulfill it.

He had done it before, after all. He was ready to kill Spock when Henoch took control over his body. Hell, they went as far as injecting him with what they believed to be poison. He was capable of doing it then.

He had sent Spock on a suicide mission into the spatial anomaly. He accepted the fact that the Vulcan would most likely never come back.

He had allowed him to take part in the queen's contest on Mayula III, even though he had known that the fight was supposed to end only with death and Spock wasn't going to kill his opponent.

He had faced that decision a number of times, and he had always made the correct one. He had always remained an officer first and everything else second. He knew explicitly well Spock's views in the matter. Had the Vulcan been able to speak, he would have been trying, even now, to convince his Captain to perform his duty one more time. For a moment, Kirk almost felt a quiet, soft whisper in his mind, urging him to decline.

 _Oh, Spock. As if the mind sifter wasn't enough. As if Parmen's twisted mind games weren't enough. Why did you have to go and put yourself through this, too?_

He snapped his eyes open to find Kramer still watching him.

Slowly, Kirk lowered his rifle and let go. It fell to the floor with an offended clang. Behind his back, he could feel Chekov glance at Scott in silent inquiry. He as good as saw Scott shaking his head mildly, almost imperceptibly.

None of it mattered.

He walked to stand in front of Spock, looking in his blank, frozen eyes.

"I'm sorry, Spock," he whispered almost inaudibly. "I'm sorry, my friend. But I can't do it. I can't do it anymore."

He reached to take Spock's hand away from his shoulder. There was no resistance. Carefully, Kirk lowered it to its normal position and, still holding it, turned to Kramer.

"Let's go."

The _Nailer_ was watching him, with an enigmatic expression on his face. He didn't stop Kirk, and the Captain knew why. They were both aware that he could simply order Spock to stop breathing at any moment. There was no need for dramatic gestures. At last, Kramer bent his head slightly.

"Tell your men to let us go."

Kirk nodded, without turning his head.

"Scotty."

"Aye, Captain," came immediate reply.

They exited through another door. Kramer obviously had known the terrain very well, for he led them steadily and unerringly, without any kind of hesitation. Spock's pace was efficient, but mechanical, as if he were a robot.

In a sense, Kirk mused bitterly, he was.

After about forty minutes of walking, they had finally reached the small craft. Warp-capable, Kirk acknowledged grimly. And the _Enterprise_ was still a sitting duck.

"I will leave you now, Captain," Kramer said, turning back for a moment before entering the hatch. "I was going to release my hold on him when I left the system, but he'll break it earlier than that. I had thought to kill you both, because you deserve to die. You and people like you are the worst kind of scum our planet has ever known. But I will let you live. This demon has no soul. But he had opened my eyes to the truth. And the truth is worth everything. For this once, I will allow the evil to exist. For this once," he reiterated pointedly. "Don't cross paths with me again." He turned his back on Kirk and disappeared into his shuttle.

Kirk watched the launch blankly. He felt enervated and empty, as if he had given up too much. As if there was nothing left.

But as the spacecraft became but a meteor in the evening sky, the immobile body next to him began to tremble, then shake, and he barely had the time to catch it as it started to fall, and lower it carefully to the ground.

"Jim..." Spock whispered, and Kirk felt an absurd impulse to laugh. For a moment, he just sat there, staring into the darkening skies incredulously, while mirth and fright warred inside him.

He had just let a mass-murderer go—and he didn't regret it. He didn't regret it one bit. He could not feel sorry for his choice, not while holding this exhausted, hurt, but so very much alive being close to his heart, feeling life beneath the surface.

No fear of consequences, no shame. No regrets. Not even to the smallest possible degree.

And _that_ was frightening.

"Jim," Spock said again, and Kirk tightened his grip, feeling warmth spreading beneath his skin, like lava. "The needs of the many... outweigh the needs of the few... Or the one... You should not have... agreed."

"Shut up, Spock," Kirk snapped, not noticing that his hold was becoming crushing. "You can lecture me all you want, all the way back to Earth. I'm not going to say a word. But right now, just do me a favor and keep quiet."

Kirk didn't see it, but he knew that one upswept eyebrow had risen, as the man in his arms conceded to this most illogical request. He closed his eyes then, tiredly, praying that the search party would find them before the tentative agreement would have expired.


	25. No More Bets

Once again under her own power, the _Enterprise_ was on course back to Earth.

The week that had passed since the resolution of the hostage situation on Lericon II had been busy and emotionally trying. The task force that had arrived in three days since the battle had taken charge over the prisoners. The miners were given a trial. The _Nailers_ , those who had survived the withdrawal from the prolonged telepathic manipulation, were sent to a rehab colony where their mental health was to be assessed. The hostages were sorted out and offered help in dependence on their personal wishes. Some were put on the transport headed back to Federation space; others preferred to remain in Beluska sector. Some were hospitalized, of course.

The damage to the _Enterprise_ was so excessive that there could have been no option of it being repaired in space. The decision weighed heavily on Mr. Scott, who kept insisting that it was doable. Turning home now meant cutting their five-year mission at least two months short, but under the circumstances, Command had clearly believed it was for the best. The task force vessels had supplied them with enough spare parts to make them warp-capable again, and as soon as they were installed, the ship was on her way.

Home.

After three or four days of exuberant havoc, the crew had become quieter. Between processing the recent events and preparing themselves for a major change to come, everyone had too much on their minds to keep flaring with activity.

The engineering crew was beat. Holding the tired vessel together made them pull double shifts on a regular basis. Most of them were literally praying to get home sooner. The mood was one of grim determination on the Engineering deck, but it was the medical personnel who leaned heavily on stimulants to keep functioning. Even now, with the _Nailers_ , miners and civilians off their hands, the _Enterprise's_ own casualty list remained long and impressive. In the end, McCoy had simply ordered half his staff off duty for sheer fear of fatigue-born medical mistakes.

"Burning the midnight oil, Doctor?" Kirk came up from behind, as McCoy was retrieving his cup from the replicator. "What's that?"

"What does it look like?" the CMO grunted. "Warm milk."

"Warm milk?"

"Warm milk, and quit staring at me like that. I need to relax a bit so I can sleep."

"You're barely standing as it is, don't tell me you have trouble sleeping."

McCoy sighed, rubbing his forehead tiredly.

"Sleep requires some energy, too, Jim."

"I suppose," Kirk nodded, picking up his coffee and ignoring the look the Doctor had given him.

They sat down at a table in the corner. The Mess was vacated but for the two of them, but it still felt better this way. Kirk looked his friend over piercingly and shook his head.

"Bones, you look terrible."

McCoy chuckled dryly.

"Judging by you, that's the style now," he sent back, without a bite. "It's nothing a good night's sleep won't cure."

"Is M'Benga in charge?"

"Uh-hmm. I'm relieving him in eight hours. Bet he's going to sleep for a week, after he's off the stimulants."

"What about you?"

McCoy straightened up a bit and looked at him strictly.

"I didn't take any, Captain, since he did. One of the senior medical officers should stay off this stuff at all times. It's standard Starfleet protocol."

"Easy, Doctor, I spoke without thinking," Kirk raised a hand to calm him down. "I guess it's been the hardest on you then."

McCoy shrugged.

"Yes and no. We only lost two patients. Can you imagine how lucky that is?"

The Captain frowned. "I don't feel very lucky losing any of my crew," he sighed. "But I know what you mean."

McCoy was watching him fixedly.

"So," he drawled, taking a sip of his milk. "You wanna tell me what happened down there?"

Kirk made eye contact briefly, more to be able to say that he did so than for anything else.

"You know what happened. I let him go."

"This much is common knowledge by now. Why did you?"

Kirk's eyes flashed.

"Would you rather I didn't?"

McCoy remained unaffected.

"That's not what I'm asking, Jim. Are you in trouble?"

"With Command? Maybe," Kirk dropped carelessly.

"You don't seem awfully concerned."

"Oh, I am concerned, Bones. This might cost me my captaincy in the long run. But I don't think it will. I'm not the only one caught with my hand in the cookie jar."

"Maybe not, but you're the easiest target."

"Am I? Bones, for all of this to happen, Starfleet Intelligence must have been three steps behind the Romulans and two steps behind the _Nailers_ all the way. My ship's barely intact, and I've lost five good men because someone in Command had been literally sleeping on their job and we had to do their work for them!"

"Which we did only half way, since we let Kramer go," McCoy reminded him flatly.

"Bones, what do you want me to say? That I'm sorry? I'm not. And if it happened again, I would have done the same thing. Happy now?"

"It's not me who you should try to make happy, Jim," McCoy noted irritably. "It's Command. And from where I'm sitting, it looks pretty straightforward right now. You'd better come up with another way of explaining this than the obvious, because otherwise I can't possibly imagine how they would let you keep the ship."

"How would Command know what's obvious and what isn't?" Kirk snapped. "It could have been anyone in Spock's place, and I still wouldn't have allowed them to die in cold blood."

"Maybe," McCoy gave him a thin smile. "And would you also have taken _anyone_ to Vulcan, disregarding direct orders? Would you have let _anyone_ kill you to save their life? Jim, I'm sorry for ruining your sky castles, but Command can put two and two together as well as the next man. You have to come up with something else."

"There is nothing else, Doctor."

"There has to be. Do you know that Sudak's going to file his report any day now? I bet he's not going to find that much logic behind your decision."

"Sudak may find that I'm a raving lunatic for all I care, Bones. What makes you think Command's going to listen to him?"

"They sent him, for one thing. For another..." McCoy sighed, gathering his thoughts. "Listen, Jim. It had always been a very fine line that you and Spock had been walking on for all these years. And now you've crossed it. If you think Command will simply look the other way, you're unbelievably naïve. I'd start to plan my defense right now, if I were you, Captain. In fact, I think you should have started yesterday."

"Thanks a lot, Bones," Kirk threw at him sourly, watching him rise to his feet. "You really do know how to lift up spirits, don't you?"

"I'm a pro in everything I do, Captain," the Doctor waved his hand dismissively in the air. "Now, if you're done hiding your head in the sand for the moment, I'm off to bed."

"Wait, Bones," Kirk called after him, suddenly remembering something. "I heard you got a call from Admiral Leland?"

McCoy frowned.

"Missed it—I was doing a surgery. I'll call him back in the morning."

Kirk raised his eyebrows.

"It'll be middle of the night in San Francisco."

"I know. That's the idea."

Kirk grinned, shaking his head.

"And you wonder why he doesn't like you very much. You know what he wanted?"

"No, but whatever it was, I'm sure it wasn't good news."

"Aren't you being a little pessimistic?"

"No, Jim. I wish I was. But if Leland had taken the trouble of calling me, I can expect nothing good."

"Well, I hope you're wrong about that. But I'm keeping you awake, Bones, and you're dead on your feet. Go on, see you tomorrow."

"Get some rest yourself, Jim. You definitely look like you need it."

He walked out, leaving Kirk staring after him gloomily.

"Some rest," the Captain muttered, rubbing his eyes. "Aye-aye, sir."

 

 

\--

He knew the door wasn't locked, but pressed the buzzer anyway. The deep dry voice answered instantly.

"Enter."

Spock stepped inside the guest quarters, looking around automatically before focusing on their occupant.

"Spock?" Sudak allowed his eyebrows to rise. "I was not expecting you."

"Am I disturbing you, Commissioner?"

"You have interrupted my work. But since this has already transpired, it is no longer of consequence. What is the reason for this visit?"

"I wish to discuss a private matter with the Shari."

"Indeed?" Sudak's eyes glinted mildly and he gestured Spock to a chair. "I am listening."

Spock declined the invitation with a curt wave of his hand.

"Sudak-Shari, am I correct in my assumption that your recommendation to Shari Tcha'kla will be denouncement?"

"Quite correct. Recent events had proved that you are manipulating the human to an even further extent than I have suspected. You made him forget his duty. This must be stopped."

Spock took a moment to absorb this, then tilted his head slightly.

"I agree."

Sudak's eyes widened. He was clearly taken by surprise.

"You agree?"

"Indeed I do. I have come to inform you that I have decided to submit myself to the studying of Kolinahr. I believe this is the only choice."

"That is a wise decision, Spock," Sudak intoned, still somewhat incredulously. "I approve."

Spock didn't trust himself to comment on that. Instead, he added, "I have also come to make a request."

"Oh?"

Spock made a couple of steps, as if composing himself for what was to follow.

"Sudak-Shari," he began slowly. "Would you agree that the blame for what has happened lies with me?"

The elder Vulcan frowned.

"Blame is an illogical human concept, Spock."

"Forgive me, I should have said responsibility. Would you agree that I was the one responsible for the situation?"

"That is unquestionable."

"Quite," Spock nodded. "Then, would you also agree that it would be unfair for Captain Kirk to accept the weight of the consequences for my transgressions?"

"I am not certain I can discern your meaning, Spock."

"Heinrich Kramer has escaped justice because of me. However, your report will indicate that it was the Captain who was responsible. I ask you not to submit it."

"I beg your pardon?" Sudak's eyes narrowed. "Are you asking me to lie?"

"Not at all, Shari. But since the truth is impossible to reveal, do you not find that an omission would be appropriate?"

Sudak continued to watch him suspiciously.

"You are trying to protect him."

Spock raised an eyebrow.

"I am trying to protect the innocent. Is that not a laudable goal?"

"And the fact that this 'innocent' is also your t'hy'la is merely a convenient coincidence?"

"Indeed."

"Spock, you must believe me to be lacking intelligence."

"On the contrary, Shari. I am convinced that a Vulcan of your intelligence should see the situation as clearly, as I do. If my t'hy'la is to suffer disgrace and misfortune, which would be the inevitable consequences of your report, my duty is to endure them with him. Particularly, since I am the one responsible for his involvement. In that case, I would not be able to proceed to Gol and study with the masters. This, however, would make the situation public. My fall from grace would no longer be my private concern, but would become a source of shame for all Vulcans. I do not find this development desirable, Shari. Do you?"

The frown on Sudak's face grew deeper and deeper, as Spock progressed smoothly through his sequence of supposed events. The polite delivery did not change the substance.

This was an ultimatum.

If McCoy were a witness to this conversation, he would have loosely translated Spock's tirade as, 'Keep Jim out of this, and I will do whatever you want.'

Sudak obviously understood the intended message perfectly, but he did not enjoy being outmatched.

"Have you considered, Spock, that in case of this most undesirable development, your father would be the one to suffer the most? If both his sons were declared to be without logic, this would damage the esteem our people hold for him beyond repair. Does that mean nothing to you?"

This was the moment which Spock had dreaded. He had spent hours preparing himself for this conversation, and he had predicted this development. Lying was something that had caused him almost physical discomfort, but there seemed to be no other way. This was the time to find out how much he had learnt from Jim on the subject of poker.

"It matters little," he declared nonchalantly. "My father and I have not spoken for eighteen years. The rift between us has become permanent. His fate is of little concern to me."

"Is it? I find this difficult to accept. He is your father."

His bluff had been called. Now he was to discover whether he would be able to remove both Jim and Sarek out of harm's way.

"Indeed. And as my father, he bears at least partial responsibility for what I have become. Otherwise why should he suffer for my disgrace?"

"That is correct, but—"

"And since he does, he may not be considered innocent. It would not be logical for me to protect him."

Sudak was silent for a long time. His eyes were glued to Spock's face, but the younger Vulcan endured his scrutiny stoically.

There was no fathomable realm for Spock where he would allow Sarek to suffer for his son's faults. There was equally no imaginable dimension where he would drag Jim with him on his way down. Spock had made his decision prior to his arrival. Whatever Sudak's response was to be, he would go to Gol to prevent more harm from happening. But if by presenting his terms, as if they truly existed, he could also save something, which he had considered unsalvageable before, it was certainly worth a try.

Sudak regarded him scrupulously for another moment, then spoke softly.

"May I have your thoughts, Spock?"

And this was a call for the last card he had left.

His poker face carefully in place, Spock tilted his head slightly.

"I have no objections, Shari. However, it would not be advisable. My contact with Kramer and the Remans had caused certain damage. I am currently endeavoring to repair it and predict a full recovery. But in the meantime, any person to come in mental contact with me might be affected, too."

At the mentioning of Remans, Sudak had even taken a step back, and Spock realized he had won. The thought did not reflect on his face, of course.

"Forgive me, I have not considered that," the Shari said, a little bit too hastily. "I withdraw my request."

Spock was waiting patiently. There was a certain humming in his ears, an upsurge of excitement of a rarely experienced kind. Was that the way Jim felt, sparring with Klingons to squeeze a win? With each coming second, Spock noticed more and more the signs of nervousness in his vis-à-vis. He reaffirmed his control in order not to show his own state of mind.

Finally, the Shari spoke.

"My report is credible when supported by the ship's logs. As there had been no recording of the senior staff meeting where the decision to land had been made, and as I did not beam down to the planet... I believe it would not be correct of me to give any account of these events."

Spock met his gaze calmly. It was a moment that justified a smile of triumph, but he didn't feel like smiling. Bowing his head politely, he said simply, "I shall be ready to leave when you give the word."

Sudak let out an audible breath, giving away his relief.

"I shall make preparations. And I shall contact the masters of Gol on your behalf."

"I am grateful. Now, if I may be excused, I need to conclude my business here."

"Of course. Spock," Sudak called after him. "You made the correct decision."

Spock didn't reply, just inclined his head slightly and left the room.

 

 

\--

The warp core gave off a forced, labored hum, so uncharacteristically unsteady and uneven, and he just sat quietly in the outer chamber and listened.

He knew he could save her, but Starfleet Command wasn't interested in his suggestions. They wanted her in drydocks as soon as possible for a major refit, and they didn't much care what he had to say on the subject.

Deep inside, Scotty knew they were right.

Her wounds were too severe. Too many of her essential parts were damaged beyond repair. He could hold her together, but he couldn't make her 'good as new' any more. Not out here, in space. Not with almost everything inside her in need of replacement.

For fifteen years, she had been his home.

Hell, for fifteen years, she had been his everything. He had never expected it to happen, but it had, somehow. She had become such a major presence in his life that he couldn't quite fathom it without her. He took pride in her virtues and secretly adored her vices. He knew all her quirks and phases, and he learned to deal with them on the spot. Her bugs were as familiar to him as the back of his own hand. And now they all were going to be fixed, and it felt so strangely painful. It felt as if they would strip her of her personality, of that unique character she possessed. As her Engineer, he couldn't help thinking about it as of some sort of crime.

But there was more to it than him being her Engineer.

Fifteen years. Three wars. Two captains. All the people that came and went. New treaties, new allies, new enemies. Triumphs. Tragedies. Hopes, fears, everything.

Fifteen years. Now, they would replace everything, make it new. He could not help her. He could no longer preserve her the way she was.

He couldn't save her.

He no longer spent the days trying to redesign her. What was the point? The decision had been taken from him. He pulled his shifts quietly, mostly aiming simply to live through the day. He barely spoke to his staff, but they had so much work to do that nobody really noticed.

It was during one of the quiet moments, when Gabler stuck his head in the door, looking at him warily.

"Mr. Scott? The Captain is looking for you. Haven't you heard the comm, sir?"

Scott looked at him, slightly startled.

"No. Did he say—?"

"He said he'll be in his quarters."

"Aye. Thanks, laddie."

Gabler nodded and disappeared.

Now, what could that possibly be about? Scott mused, frowning, as he made his way up to the Captain's quarters. He couldn't imagine why Kirk might have wanted to see him now.

The Captain was working at his desk when Scott entered. He smiled a bit ruefully as he invited the Engineer inside, and Scott tensed inwardly, expecting a trap. Kirk handed him a padd.

"Behold the mighty _Excelsior_ ," the Captain drawled with a grin. "The first in the new generation. What do you think of her, Scotty?"

Scott skipped through the pages with schematics, unimpressed.

"It's... new," he glanced up at the Captain briefly, as if checking whether he had said the right thing.

Kirk shook his head, the grin ever present, but this time it was sincere.

"It's a prototype as yet, but if the test runs are successful, Starfleet is willing to make the _Excelsior_ the model for the new class of starships. The team of designers is currently in search for someone experienced to fill in the position of a senior engineer. If you're interested, I might put a few words in the right ears."

Scott was staring at him unblinkingly throughout his speech, and Kirk felt distinctly uncomfortable under this charged gaze.

"Captain," Scott spoke as if he could barely control his anger. "Are ye getting me a lifeboat?"

"No, of course not!" Kirk blushed, looking away briefly. "I just thought it would be a good opportunity for you to move on, to develop, you know, in some—"

"Ye _are_ getting me a lifeboat."

It was a justified conclusion. True, it was Kirk who gave the order to let Kramer go. But if the charges against him were to be pressed, the chances were that Scott would be charged also—for obeying this order.

Scott crossed his arms over his chest, as if trying to physically restrain himself from launching at Kirk. The Captain had apparently lost his zeal for talking and was simply watching Scott warily.

"Whatever made ye think that I would ever, _ever_ , take it?"

"Look, Scotty," Kirk sighed, lifting his hands. "I didn't mean it like that—"

"Sure sounded like ye did."

Kirk looked at him, somewhat angered, too.

"Dammit, Scotty! They will have hearing, upon hearing, upon hearing on this! It was my order, my decision, and you—"

"And I didn't disobey it, although I could. I did that knowingly, Captain, and woulda done the same again. D'ye think I'm that much afraid of some blasted hearing?"

"Scotty, but don't you see? There's no point in you screwing your career over this!"

"I respectfully suggest ye let me decide that," Scott snapped. "Ye did what ye thought was right, Captain, and so did I. And I will face the consequences, same as ye will. Now, if that's all ye wanted—"

"That's all. Dismissed," Kirk nodded tensely. Scott was almost at the door, when he added, slowly and very quietly, "Thank you."

The Engineer paused in the doorway, not quite turning around completely, and looking at the bulkhead, rather than at Kirk.

"I once had a choice like ye, Captain," he said tersely. "I made mine, and was charged, and sent down to the bottom of the promotion list. I know exactly how it feels to pay the price. What ye were trying to do just now... I suppose ye had good intentions. But if ye don't plan on confining me to the brig for assaulting a superior officer, don't do that again."

He turned abruptly and left before Kirk could say anything or even let out a breath he was holding.

The Captain sank into his chair, enervated, still staring at the closed door. He shook his head and smiled slightly in bemusement. There were facets to this seemingly open man that he would never know, layers to his personality that no one would ever uncover. Five years of observation were clearly not enough time to solve this enigma of a man. Not nearly enough time, if any amount would have made any difference.

Kirk sighed and threw the data chip with the schematics for the _Excelsior_ into the dispenser.

In the corridor, Scott pressed his hand against the smooth wall, discerning imperceptible vibrations of the ship's living being.

"Till the end," he muttered with grave conviction. "Till the end."

 

 

\--

Her shift had lasted fourteen hours instead of eight, as did the one before it, and the one before that. That was why when Christine heard laughter as she walked along the corridor to her quarters her first thought was that she was hallucinating. It wasn't the most common sound on board these days. The sound came again, and she asked herself if she was turning space happy. But what was more to it, the laughter was actually familiar.

She closed to the entrance to the ship's arboretum and looked in cautiously.

Her hearing didn't fail her. Uhura was indeed sitting on a bench among the flowers, shaking her head and chuckling softly. She appeared to be alone.

"Nyota?"

Uhura looked up and smiled at her.

"Christine! I didn't hear you coming."

"Yes, I was just coming off shift," Chapel said, walking over to her and making a professionally quick survey. "Are you all right?"

"Sure," Uhura nodded. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well..."

"Oh, I'm fine, Chris. Just got some news from home, and it made me a little lightheaded, I guess."

"Good news?"

"I—" Uhura looked thoughtful. "I don't know. I haven't thought about it yet. It was just so ironic that this should have happened."

"What happened?" Christine asked eagerly, sensing a major disquiet within her friend. "Is it about Theo?"

"Yes," Uhura smiled again and shook her head incredulously. "You know, all those times he's been trying to contact me and I didn't answer? I thought he was reminding me of our oaths so that I wouldn't forget to say goodbye to the ship. And I kept avoiding him and never answered because I didn't know how to tell him I wanted out of our agreement."

"You talked to him," Christine deduced.

"I did. Turns out he wanted out of our arrangement, too. He's fallen in love with one of his chorus girls and now he wants to marry her. Imagine that."

"Oh, Ny," Christine touched her shoulder sympathetically. "I'm so sorry."

"No-no," Uhura shook her head. "Don't be. To tell you the truth, I am relieved that it has ended up this way. It's just that it's so damn ironic. All this time I didn't want to talk to him because I didn't want to break his heart, and he didn't call back because he didn't want to break mine."

Chapel smiled.

"You appear to be in sync."

"Yes, we are, aren't we?" Uhura laughed. "We've always been," she sighed, suddenly wistful. "I'm going to miss him."

"Well, you're free to advance in your career now," Chapel said reasonably. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

"It is," Uhura nodded, frowning slightly. "Only I never realized that this ship itself was more important to me than advancing in my career."

"Yes, I remember Captain Rogers offered you a promotion if you transferred off to the _Valiant_. You turned him down. Took your time at that, though," her eyes twinkled teasingly. "The Captain didn't sleep for about a week, while you were 'making your decision'."

Uhura laughed.

"Was I really that bad?"

"You were a smug impish creature and you absolutely enjoyed it."

"Yes, I'm afraid I did," she shook her head reminiscently. "Life's damn ironic sometimes. I can stay with the ship now, but nobody knows whether there will be a ship to stay with. You should see all the requests and questionnaires that come through my station every day. Our crew is going to be reassigned throughout the quadrant."

"But not the Bridge crew, surely," Chapel started slightly.

Uhura shrugged.

"Nothing will be clear until after the debriefing," she said. "But, technically speaking, we have a lot of people due for promotion. Chekov, and Sulu, and—" she glanced at her friend briefly, "—and Mr. Spock. And you know what his promotion would mean—reassignment. We can't have two captains on one ship."

Christine bowed her head slightly. She knew that her life was about to undergo a major change, but she preferred not to dwell on it.

She remembered herself, as she had been when she had come aboard for the first time. She was young and desperate. It was hard for her to have her status changed so swiftly. Only just she had been a promising young scientist, then suddenly she was no more than a nurse. She had had a hard time at first, dealing with McCoy's arrogance. But Roger had occupied her thoughts and dreams so completely that she was prepared to endure whatever it took to find him.

Then, she did.

Her life lay in ruins. She had stayed with the ship then more because she felt completely at a loss of what to do, than for any other reason. Slowly, so very slowly, she began to crawl out of her dark corner.

Her crush on Spock was unexpected and very embarrassing, but in retrospect, she thought it was for the best. It was a safe way to occupy her mind, instead of sliding lower and lower into the well of her despair and grief. Spock had made it very clear that he couldn't return her feelings, and that freed her from any kind of emotional burdens she might have had otherwise. There were no decisions to be made. She could simply love him from afar, without asking herself about the future.

Her feelings for him had transformed, too. Her heart still tugged slightly when somebody said his name, but she no longer winced or blushed like she used to. She could now have a conversation with him, without residing to one-syllable answers. She wondered if they could ever become friends. She would have wanted that very much.

Just as Spock's presence on board helped her maintain her emotional balance, McCoy's guidance was crucial in her finding her professional path. The CMO could have been cynical to the core, but he was never unkind to her, no matter how easy a target she presented. He was the one who started giving her the tasks that had far exceeded the field of expertise of a Head Nurse. She had assisted him in almost every research project he had conducted, and she had concluded quite a share of her own under his supervision.

He was the one who made her publish her works and eventually the one who prompted her to take exams to medical school. 'Just try it,' he had said. 'What do you have to lose?'

She had tried and failed the first time. He had encouraged her to try again. And when she had passed with flying colors, for a moment he had become almost teary-eyed, as he looked at her beaming face. Almost instantly, he had switched to his grumpy doctor mode, but the damage was done. She knew he was proud of her. Only Roger had ever cared to this extent about what would become of her, and Christine was grateful.

As time passed, she got used to the idea that she would be leaving the ship and these people, who had been her family for nearly five years. Looking back, she couldn't help but marvel at the magnitude of change she had undergone during this relatively short period of time. She got used to the idea of leaving, but she had also found comfort in thinking that one day she may be coming back.

It never occurred to her that what she left behind would cease to exist by the time she would be ready to return.

She suddenly felt a warm hand wrapping around her shoulders.

"Hey, look what I've done, made you sad," Uhura intoned sympathetically. "All things change, Chris. We'll get over it."

"I suppose we will," the Nurse smiled weakly.

"Come, I'll walk you to your quarters," Uhura pulled her up. "Did I ever mention that I make the best hot chocolate in the fleet?"

Christine groaned.

"Only a few thousand times."

"Well, it's still true, and you definitely need some. And then, I'll tuck you in."

Chapel chuckled.

"Are you after my job now?"

"Maybe," Uhura grinned slyly. "I heard there was an opening."

They left the arboretum in companionable silence, enjoying the stray shots of warmth the ship was sending their way.


	26. Burning Bridges

He was almost done.

Spock was never the one who hesitated after the decision was made. He told Sudak he needed to conclude his business here, and he had devoted himself to the task with natural Vulcan diligence and efficiency.

Admittedly, he had a lot of things to take care of.

He made sure the ship's logs and documentation were in perfect order. He concluded his part of the crew evaluations and wrote recommendations for his staff. He wrapped up all his scientific projects, redirecting them to those of his colleagues whom he considered sufficiently equipped to take over. He recorded a detailed deposition regarding the events of the last mission to be forwarded to Starfleet Command, since he would be unavailable for a debriefing. He packed his personal possessions. He wrote small notes of acknowledgement to some of his fellow officers, expressing his gratitude for the years of serving together.

There was only one thing left to do.

Inform the Captain.

Spock was not looking forward to this conversation.

He hesitated, looking over his quarters as if in hopes that he could find himself another task to further the moment. His glance fell over the chess-set. When the Captain and he had last played, they had been interrupted and hadn't finished the match.

Now they never would.

Spock suppressed a sigh and chided himself inwardly. What must be done, must be done. There was no point in such thoughts, no logic behind this way of thinking. He collected himself resolutely, picked up the data chip he had prepared earlier and set off decisively for the Captain's quarters.

"Spock," Kirk glanced up from his desk as he entered, and smiled. "It's about time."

Spock stepped inside silently. It was true that he and Kirk had seen very little of each other since their take off from Lericon II. Spock had spent the first twenty-four hours in Sick Bay, and then there had been too much work to do to allow any kind of personal interaction. And then, he had made his decision.

"Captain," he addressed Kirk formally, coming to an irreproachably correct stand. "I wish to submit this file for your inspection."

He handed Kirk the data chip.

The Captain frowned. For a long moment, he simply stared at the chip, as if it was a viper ready to spring at him. He then looked up at Spock, with an almost pleading expression on his face, but his gaze was repelled by a mask of total opaqueness. Kirk's face closed, as he took the chip finally and inserted in into the reader.

Not a muscle twitched on his face, as his eyes followed the cold lines of an official statement. He sat silently, staring at the monitor for a much longer time than was required for reading the entire document. Twice. When he finally looked at Spock, he appeared at his best command cool.

"A letter of resignation, Commander? Don't you think you're overreacting?"

"Negative, Captain," Spock replied evenly.

"Spock, it was my responsibility," Kirk said, letting his fatigue slip into his voice. "Not yours."

"I tend to disagree, sir. However, this one incident would not have been a sufficient cause for my decision."

"Then, what was?" Kirk came up to his feet in one swift motion. He moved around his desk to face Spock, and the Vulcan made an involuntary step back. "Why, Spock?"

"Captain, this latest incident was merely a symptom of a larger problem. I can no longer function efficiently as your First Officer."

Kirk swallowed and looked away. The uncomfortable, tense silence stretched on. When the Captain had finally spoken again, his tone was considerably more quiet. He sounded beat.

"Spock, if I failed you somehow..." he trailed off, and shook his head abruptly. "You know, when we first met, I swore to myself I would never try and change you. But I did try, didn't I? I pushed you. I pushed you and couldn't stop. I wanted you so much to respond that I... Why resign?" he looked up almost hopefully. "If I'm the problem, why not ask for reassignment? Hell, for all we know, one might already be waiting for you. Spock, you've been in Starfleet for almost twenty years. It obviously is important to you. Don't quit because of one man's mistake. You're too valuable an officer—"

"Captain," Spock raised a hand to forestall him. "You made no mistakes. You never 'pushed' me where I didn't want to go. Our years of serving together were gratifying. It was an honor."

"Then, why resign?" Kirk asked again, urgently. "What happened, Spock?"

"Family obligations require my presence on Vulcan at this time."

"Take a long leave."

"A leave, however long, would not be sufficient. I will not be able to carry out my obligations to my family and to Starfleet at the same time."

"Sounds like you are in trouble."

"I am not, Captain. However, if I do not leave, I will be."

"Then, let me help," Kirk asked ferociously. "For God's sake, Spock! Do these five years mean nothing to you? Do I mean nothing to you as well?"

Spock looked away quickly, but was unable to stop an instinctive response.

"How can you ask me that?"

"How can _I_ ask you that?" Kirk's temper flared. "I'm not the one who wants to leave with some petty excuse of an explanation! You say I made no mistakes—then, how can you dishonor me with this attitude? I'm either guilty of something—and then you'd better tell me what it is, or you can't find it in you to be honest with me. Damn you, Spock! Am I really this undeserving that you would not give me a straight answer?"

"Jim, please," unconsciously, he made a couple of steps away, as if seeking refuge in distance. "This isn't easy for me, either."

"Is this supposed to mean something to me?" Kirk snapped, watching him angrily.

"I must go. Please do not ask me to explain."

"You'll have to do a lot better than that."

"Jim..." Spock paused, formulating a new strategy. He didn't like the idea of resigning to emotional blackmail very much, but it was a powerful instrument of persuasion. And desperate times called for desperate measures.

He turned back to Kirk, trying hard to present at least the semblance of control, since he had none for real.

"Jim, I'm on a schedule of my own here. If I do not return to Vulcan, in an undetermined amount of time from now, I will be facing a most unpleasant and undignified death. And I do not wish to die."

Kirk's eyes glinted. His stance was becoming expressively belligerent.

"I haven't forgotten, Spock, if that's what you're implying. What makes you think that if you stay with me I won't take care of it? Have I ever failed to save your life before?"

"Jim, if your memory is indeed intact, you should also remember that the means to save my life in this particular case would have to be somewhat drastic."

"It's not as drastic as you make it sound. In fact, I thought about it a great deal since we've been to Vulcan the last time. I know what you're afraid of, Spock. I'm afraid of the same thing. I won't allow you to slip into madness, even if I'm the only person to stand in-between."

"Jim!" the shock on Spock's face was unmistakable. "Do you realize what you're saying?"

"Yes, I do! Dammit, Spock! When are _you_ going to realize that there's precious little in this goddamned universe that I wouldn't do for you?"

After a long, intense while, Spock looked away. When he spoke, it was considerably quieter.

"I know that it is in your nature to sacrifice your own interests and wishes for others. I cannot, however, allow you to do this on my account."

"Spock," Kirk sighed resignedly. "I'm a Starfleet officer. It is my duty to risk my life for others. I'd give my life to save any of my crew, hell, even a complete stranger. But I wouldn't jump off a cliff to make them happy."

"I do not wish you to jump off a cliff."

"I won't have to! Why on earth are we talking about this as if you're going to drag me through a Klingon torture chamber? If you think you're tough, you should have seen some of the people I've been with."

"Jim," Spock's voice fell to a bare whisper, as he closed his eyes in defeat. After a long pause, he continued in a flat, colorless tone. "It is clear that my logic is failing for I cannot reason with you. Even now, as you pull out one absurd and dangerous argument after another, I am tempted to follow you. But this would be a way to ultimate destruction. For you, for me, for how many others? Jim," the Vulcan's tortured, demented eyes bored into his, expressing what his even voice could not. "Jim, can't you see that I am unable to fight you here? Please. For both our sakes. For the good of the service. Let me go."

"For the good of the service," Kirk repeated slowly, tasting the words. "You think that the service will benefit if we split up the best command team Starfleet has ever had?"

Spock shook his head, some of his confidence returning.

"I do not need to remind you about what happened five days ago."

"Nothing happened."

"Jim." Sharp. Reproachful.

"Oh, all right. But no one got hurt, so what's the problem? As you're so fond of saying, the difference that makes no difference—"

"—is no difference," Spock raised an eyebrow, looking strict. "Not in this case."

"No harm was done."

"For how long are you planning to keep telling yourself this? Until someone dies?"

"It's a funny thing _you_ should be lecturing me on that one, Spock. If I recall correctly, you once held the whole ship on the brink of insanity because of a vague hope that I was still alive. You're no better in this than I am."

"That is exactly my point, Jim. Neither you, nor I are capable of the necessary level of detachment. Until now we have been... fortunate. But this cannot continue indefinitely."

"The level of personal risk that we take—"

"—does not justify the risk we impose on others. How long till someone starts asking questions? They will be rightful questions, Jim. Your command is at stake here."

"Don't think I don't know what you're trying to do. Throwing my command on the other balance pan isn't fair, Spock."

"I am merely naming the inevitable consequences of your actions."

 _And entering a competition I know I cannot win_.

"Dammit," Kirk bit his lip in anguish. "Command is not just a job for me, Spock. It defines who I am. What I am. But it's not that important."

"Yes, it is, Jim," Spock contradicted him gently. "It is very important to you. And losing it _is_ this 'precious little' that you wouldn't do for me. I would be a poor friend if I let you do this."

"You let me do it once before."

"I was hardly myself then, and you very nearly died by my hand as a result. A poor gratification for such a selfless act."

"You live, Spock. What other gratification do I need? Besides," he sent the Vulcan a lopsided grin, "we can always depend on Bones to come up with some scheme."

Spock's face darkened, his eyes flashed with anger.

"You think this is funny? You think it was an amusing adventure, one of many, to be later transformed into an anecdote to entertain your guests at a dinner table?"

"Spock—"

"Father was correct, humans have no conception," visibly sobering, he faced Kirk squarely. "Leonard McCoy is a very special man to me, Jim. Get this through your head. To Leonard McCoy, I owe a debt of such magnitude that it is unlikely I would ever be able to repay him. He can order me to walk into the fire and I will do so. He can order me to kill for him and I will do so. There is absolutely nothing that I wouldn't do at his single word, save for harming you. To Leonard McCoy, I owe so much more than my life, Jim. I owe him yours."

Shaken to the very core of his being, Kirk stood speechless, as seconds flew by silently, converting to centuries and then back to seconds again. When he was able to formulate a coherent thought, the first thing that hit him was bitter irony. One should never provoke a Vulcan to release their control. Once unleashed, their emotions had no mercy.

He cleared his throat with an effort and looked away.

"Does he—"

"No. He does not know. Or perhaps he does. I should never underestimate him again."

Kirk closed his eyes for a moment, trying to regain some composure. He realized suddenly that the deafening sound that was making him nauseous was the desperate pounding of his own heart.

"Spock," he began in the end, rather weakly, avoiding looking at the Vulcan directly. "You've got to help me out here. Whatever words come to me seem... inadequate. I don't know what to say."

It was strange how their balance worked for both of them. Weight and counterweight. It almost seemed as if crushing Kirk to pieces with the power of his admission gave Spock the strength he needed to wrap his control around himself once again. His face was far from impassive at that moment, but it was calm, his voice—even. He clasped his hands behind his back with natural ease and tilted his head to his shoulder slightly, as he always did when supplying his Captain with options the latter had requested.

"You might say that you finally realize that your life is precious to me in ways you cannot begin to understand. That because of this, you will not be as willing to risk it recklessly as you have done many times before. That you will trust me to guard not only your life, but your happiness, because I know you better than I know myself. That you will permit me to remove the dangers from your path to the best of my abilities. And right now, Jim, the greatest danger on your path is me. The greatest risk—losing yourself the way I am already lost. I have become the greatest destabilizing element in your life. I must leave before I will have shattered it to ruins."

"Well, that's damn noble of you, Spock," Kirk snapped, spinning on him, suddenly angry. "You really think you can say things like that to me and then just walk away? You think I will let you walk out of my life, never mind this room, after what I've just heard? You must be out of your mind, Spock!"

"Jim, I do not make this request lightly," Spock assured him, unaffected by his tone. "But I have thought this over, time and again. I have analyzed the situation from every possible angle. This is the only solution."

Like a compact tornado, Kirk rushed toward him, whirling the air in his wake. He grabbed Spock's arm roughly, swinging the Vulcan to face him.

"You and I are not parts of some blasted equation, Spock!" Kirk yelled in Spock's face. "How dare you treat this like one of your goddamned experiments in plasma physics? How dare you be _analyzing_ this as—as I don't know even what? For God's sake, you're talking about US! How dare you be so calm—so blasted calm!—saying that you are going to—going to LEAVE ME? HOW DARE YOU—"

Both his hands were gripping Spock's arms now and he was mercilessly shaking him, as if trying to physically extort a reaction. This irreproachable stoic stance, this ever-calm impeccable demeanor, this pool of reason and coolness that was Spock—it was simply too much at a time like this. For a couple of frightening moments, Kirk lost control completely, feeling that he might explode, go nova, any second now. He wanted to rip, bite, tear, cry and yell—anything, anything at all, to break this infuriatingly persistent equanimity.

Spock did not react. He stood there, unresisting, allowing the distressed human to have his way with him, but making no attempt to touch him. He waited patiently until the flow of words subsided to a meek stream, the grip on his arms loosened, and Jim's forehead finally bumped into his chest, as if the weight of his head became too much for his neck muscles to support. Enervated, Kirk slumped into him, trembling slightly, his harsh breathing indicating the effort, with which he tried to regain control of himself. He craved physical support, but Spock didn't give him any. He just stood there, unmoving and waiting.

"Jim," Spock called softly, when the warm breathing against his chest became steadier.

Slowly, Kirk lifted his head to look at him. He flinched, discovering one part of Spock that wasn't hesitant to acknowledge an equal longing to touch, to bring the comfort sought. The dark eyes, suddenly incredibly expressive, held Kirk the way his hands, hanging loosely at his sides, would not. These eyes engulfed him completely. Providing support. Rendering him strength to straighten up. To step back. To stand on his own.

"Jim, please come with me."

Without waiting for an acknowledgement, Spock moved towards the door. For a moment, Kirk remained immobile, stupefied by the power of his outburst. Then the motion and the words registered. He turned to comply automatically, still too dazed to think straight.

"Where are we going?"

The absurd notion of how easily they had suddenly exchanged leadership roles dangled vaguely at the periphery of his mind. Spock didn't look back to answer.

"To face your deepest fear."

 

 

\--

Later on, he could never remember their way clearly. He was concentrating very carefully on simple tasks like putting one foot in front of the other, and then doing so again and again. Spock's back was like a blue beacon in front of him, giving him a sense of direction and urging him on, though he couldn't quite keep up. He realized that when Spock reached the turbolift and held it open for him so that he could enter the same cabin. The doors swooshed closed, and Kirk fought to keep straight, never noticing their destination.

He rubbed his forehead tiredly, trying with only partial success to shake off his torpor. A thought tickled his nerves unpleasantly. If he felt this drawn having released his emotions, how did Spock feel, having received all that? His fingers still felt slightly numb from the force of his grip. Damn. He flinched, realizing that he had made sure his friend wasn't spared anything. Warily, he glanced at the Vulcan.

But Spock looked much as he always looked—impassive, calm, prim. A little pale perhaps. A little saddened—but that only for those who could see. Kirk suppressed a sigh and dropped his gaze.

The doors opened, as the cabin came to a halt, and to his faint surprise, they stepped into the Bridge. The Gamma shift was on duty for less than two hours, and no one expected two senior officers on the Bridge at this hour.

"Mr. Spock! Captain!" Sulu exclaimed, surprised, half-rising from the command chair. "Has anything—"

"Clear the Bridge, Mr. Sulu," Spock's calm order interrupted him, as the Vulcan came to stand at the railing, Kirk at his side.

"Sir?"

Spock met Sulu's gaze and held it for several seconds, one eyebrow slightly elevated; he was clearly convinced that the officer of the watch had heard him adequately the first time. Sulu's eyes drifted over to the Captain, but Kirk was staring passively at the viewscreen, as if he weren't even there.

"Yes, sir," Sulu said, swallowing hard. "You heard him, people. Secure your stations and move out."

Barely hiding their astonishment, they moved hurriedly to obey, stealing curious glances at the command duo. Ten seconds later, the Bridge was secured and cleared except for Sulu, who paused on his way to the turbolift, wondering whether or not he should deliver the customary report. But before he could speak, Spock said coolly,

"Dismissed."

Sulu needed no further persuasion to disappear into the lift cabin.

They were alone on the Bridge, Kirk realized. He hadn't quite been holding his breath, but he discovered that he felt more at ease now that the night shift personnel had cleared off. He knew it was in violation of several standing regulations, even now that they were on a safe well-charted route to Earth. He wondered briefly why Spock had brought him there. He turned to look at Spock only to find his First Officer watching him calmly.

"Take the chair, Captain," Spock said softly. His voice, however gentle, carried just enough firmness to make certain it was not a request.

It didn't make much sense, Kirk reflected. He had sat in that chair numerous times before. Spock could probably give him a pretty good estimate on how many times exactly. But he didn't feel like arguing the point. Shrugging, he stepped down to the inner rim and sat in the center chair.

The command chair.

His chair.

He stared unseeingly ahead, acutely aware of Spock's presence outside his field of vision.

The Vulcan moved to his own station and reactivated the monitors, secured by the gamma-shift relief. His hands slid over his console in the same calm and efficient manner that was inseparable from his on-duty mode. Kirk sat quietly, with his back on Spock, gazing at the screen. Spock's scanner beeped softly.

"Captain, we are approaching an asteroid field," Spock reported. "I would estimate it to be a level 5 density."

Kirk looked at him sidelong.

"Spock, is this your idea of a nighttime entertainment?"

"Negative, Captain," the Science Officer straightened up to meet his gaze calmly. "We _are_ approaching an asteroid field."

The deflectors chose that particular moment to snap on, and Kirk stared at the blinking red indicator.

"Call everybody back up here," he ordered, getting out of his chair and hovering over Sulu's station. "I'm sorry, Spock, but whatever you planned, it will have to wait."

Spock seemed to accept that gracefully and checked the console obediently.

"Communications are out, sir. I'm reading a malfunction in the intraship relays. Estimated time of repair—"

"Never mind that now," Kirk cut him off, taking the helm. "You and I can fly around a couple of asteroids if we're any good. Feed me the readout."

"If I may, Captain, it would be safer if you transferred helm control to my station," Spock replied nonchalantly, studying his panel. "It would lower the reaction time by fifty-seven percent. And while piloting in a level 5 density field it might be—"

"It might be crucial," Kirk agreed aversely. He knew Spock was right, but hesitated still.

"Captain?" the Vulcan turned to look at him quizzically, one eyebrow raised ever so slightly. "If you have doubts regarding my piloting skills, let me remind you that as a Vulcan I do possess superior eye-hand coordination, and my reactions are not slowed down by emotional—"

"Yes, yes, I know you're an excellent pilot, Mr. Spock," Kirk snapped irritably. "Fine, I'm transferring you helm control now."

"Acknowledged, sir," Spock confirmed, concentrating on his console. "I now have control of the ship."

A stream of cold sweat broke on the back of Kirk's neck and began its unpleasant descent down his spine at those matter-of-fact words. He couldn't explain it. Maybe all that emotional talk that he and Spock had had earlier was affecting him now, or perhaps it was for the lack of sleep, but he suddenly felt distinctly helpless and more than a little anxious sitting in front of the locked console, deprived of any means to sway the situation. Of course, it would not be necessary. The ship was just as safe in Spock's hands as it was in his. Maybe even safer.

Then why was he having this revolting tugging sensation in his stomach, as he watched the asteroid formation get closer? He'd left Spock in command a thousand times before. Hell, he'd left a number of people in command in his own absence, and he never had a problem with that. But then, he didn't have to watch...

"Spock," he began hesitantly. "Maybe I should do this."

Spock didn't even turn to look at him, giving his full attention to his board.

"Do you not believe me capable, Captain?"

"Of course, I believe you capable," Kirk waved the question off, but his tension rose another notch. "It's just that—"

"Entering the field now."

Kirk held his breath, staring at the screen transfixed. It was eerie, to watch the massive, crater-cranked rocks fly towards them on their various phantasmagoric trajectories.

"Spock. Uh, Spock? You might want to, uh, slow us down a little."

"Unnecessary, the ship is fully responsive."

"Yes, but—"

"Do you not trust me, Jim?"

His hands white-knuckled on the board in front of him, Kirk gasped, as the _Enterprise_ made a very near miss of a huge asteroid. For a moment, the collision seemed inevitable.

"Spock! You might wanna be more careful!"

"Do you have a particular complaint, Jim?"

"Yes, dammit! That was too close for my comfort!"

"It was the only trajectory possible."

"Still, it's... Hey, watch out for that one!"

"I see it, Jim."

"Well, then, why don't you do anything about it?"

"I am."

"Damn it, Spock! This thing is huge! You have to—"

"I would advise you to remain calm, Jim. I have everything under control."

"Like hell you do, this one's going to crush us!"

"Jim, your panic is completely unjustified."

"I don't panic! I just want someone without a kamikaze-complex at the helm of my ship!"

"I assure you—"

The ship shook slightly, as a smaller asteroid hit the deflector screens. It was one hit too much for Kirk to bear.

"Spock, transfer the helm control back to me. Now."

"No, Jim."

"What do you mean 'no'? That's an order, Mister."

"Yes, sir, but that is an order I am disinclined to obey."

The deflector screens were tested again, this time harder.

"Disinclined to obey?" Kirk growled, whirling on his First Officer. "Since when are my orders subject to your inclinations?"

"Your order is not logical, Jim. I am better qualified to navigate the _Enterprise_ through the asteroid field."

The shields were now being bombarded, as Spock moved the ship into the center of the formation.

"Mr. Spock, release the helm control to me—now—or I shall forcibly remove you from the Bridge."

"You have no means to execute this threat, Jim. The comm is down, and you will not dare leave the Bridge to summon Security."

"Leave you alone here? You damn right, I won't, but I'll throw you out of here myself faster than you can say 'illogical'."

"Unlikely. You do not possess the necessary physical strength."

The comment stung with its casualness. Kirk's eyes narrowed dangerously. He didn't care that Spock was merely stating a biological fact: Vulcans were stronger than humans. It had been a long time since he allowed anyone to talk to him that way or to bully him.

"I don't know what you're playing at, Spock, and I don't care. But don't think for one second that I won't throw you in the brig for this. This is mutiny!"

"Perhaps, Jim. I am prepared for the consequences of my actions."

In almost sacred horror, Kirk watched the biggest yet asteroid closing in on the _Enterprise_ at alarming speed. The mass and the size were undoubtedly too great for the deflectors to withstand. Spock made no move to evade the collision.

"Spock, for God's sake," Kirk's tone was a hoarse whisper. "Are you trying to kill us?"

Spock didn't answer. The giant rock drew closer.

"Is that it? Are you in one of your damned phases? Snap out of it—what the devil are you doing? There're four hundred men and women aboard this ship! Are you trying to take them all with you?"

"If that were true, Jim, you would have no means of stopping me. You are not in control here."

As if a huge void opened up inside him all of a sudden, or an equivalent of Pandora's Box that he had always been carrying with him, Kirk's whole being was filled with rage, agony, and pure hatred. Blinded with fury, he propelled himself to the upper rim of the Bridge, towards the Science station, seized by an overpowering urge to wipe Spock out of existence. He didn't care who the offender was, he didn't remember it was Spock anymore. All he knew with absolute certainty that he would never again allow anyone to harm or kill people who were his responsibility, or to remove this responsibility from him. The images of Tarsus flooded his mind, the images that still haunted his dreams. It had been more than twenty years, and he still remembered the feeling of sucking powerlessness, of indescribable agony he had experienced being forced to watch other people die and being unable to help them. Knowing that he, too, might be shot at any moment and had no means to prevent it...

He never reached Spock. Instead, he spun back and slumped hard at the Navigation station, locked phasers on target and fired full-force, disintegrating the huge rock to miniscule harmless pieces. And then, as if the emotional drawn was finally too much for him, he collapsed over the board, his shoulders trembling.

Behind him, the intercom exploded with words.

"Engineering to Bridge! What in bloody blazes is going on up there? Who's been firing the phasers?"

Before the words or their significance even registered, he heard Spock's calm voice right behind him. The Vulcan was standing at the command chair, answering the comm.

"It's all right, Mr. Scott. The Captain has been target-practicing on a couple of asteroids."

"Target-practicing? Spock, are ye outta yer... Ah, hell. Ye coulda given me a warning. I thought we were under attack."

"My sincere apologies, Mr. Scott. I assure you this will not happen again."

"Aye," a sigh. "Scott out."

The silence that enveloped the Bridge was thick and bitter. For a long while neither of them moved, or even breathed.

When Kirk finally lifted his head and glanced at the screen, he was not particularly surprised to discover only stars and clear space ahead. With a heavy sigh, he turned in his chair to face the Vulcan. He expected to find Spock watching him, but his friend was gazing unseeingly into space, obviously deep in contemplation.

"Spock," Kirk sighed heavily. "Was the comm even down?"

"Of course, Captain," the Vulcan replied absent-mindedly. "I would not lie to you. I created the malfunction before reporting. I have now repaired it."

"And the asteroid field?"

"Might not have been as dense as I led you to believe."

"So you did lie to me."

Spock finally glanced at him.

"I made an error."

"Uh-huh. And that last asteroid? Was it even there?"

"Yes."

"And if I didn't fire—?"

"I anticipated your action. However, had you not taken it, I had an additional fifteen point two seconds to implement a course correction."

Fifteen point two seconds. Double the time needed. Kirk sighed again.

"Was there anything you haven't thought about?"

Spock's lips quirked slightly.

"I, too, am a Starfleet officer, Jim. I am the First Officer of this ship. Men and women under your command are also men and women under my command. Did you believe I would purposefully expose them to danger?"

There was sad, knowing self-irony in his tone that sliced through Kirk like a razor blade. He closed his eyes, to block the image of that tired, self-defeated figure.

Spock would rather die than let any of the crew risk their lives unnecessarily.

He knew that. Of course, he knew that. And during this whole thing, had he stopped even once to think about it, he'd have figured it out. Spock as well as told him he was setting him up. Had he stopped for one second...

But he didn't stop.

He didn't stop, as Spock knew he wouldn't. He didn't stop, he didn't even think much. All because he was not in control. He remembered how careful Spock was not to call him Captain once, how purposefully he implanted the words throughout his act, all triggering emotional, instinctive responses in Kirk which the latter couldn't control. Which he was unaware of.

Spock was right. Command was essential for him. Not because he loved to give orders, as many had thought. Not because of the prestige. But because it presented him with as full a measure of control over his own life, over his very existence as could be achieved. He craved control like a starved man craved food. A sated man would not give his dinner a second thought, would even offer it to someone else easily, but being deprived of food for a while he'd soon become obsessed with it.

Ever since he was thirteen, he had fought for this control. Being in command of a starship meant that the number of people who could force him into watching others suffer or cause their suffering would be as limited as possible. And if the responsibility that came along with that power and independence was crushing, he was willing to carry it. Everything in life came with a price tag, and that was the price he chose to pay, no matter how painful it became at times. Being in command was the only way he could keep those he cared about safe.

Spock was right, he could not lose command. He would go insane in days. Kirk opened his eyes to glance up at his friend again, and realized one other thing with painful clarity.

Spock was right. But there was nothing, absolutely nothing the Vulcan would not have given to be proven wrong.

"Spock," Kirk called quietly. The sound didn't want to come out. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Spock. How did you know? How did you know—when I didn't?"

Spock was looking at him calmly, his expression soft and almost serene.

"I know you, Jim," he said simply. "I do not know how, but I believe I knew you before I knew anything about you. It is not logical. But it is true, nevertheless."

"You must hate me," Kirk whispered.

"Hate you? For being who you are? Hardly. I am a little envious, I think."

"Envious?"

"You know who you are, Jim. You have for a long time. And I have been feeling my way for many years only to find that I am no closer to that knowledge than I was when I set off. It is discouraging."

Kirk laughed mirthlessly.

"If you found the same pathetic image I had in myself, Mr. Spock, you'd wish you'd never set off for this journey in the first place."

His unnatural smile vanished, as if wiped out. He came to his feet to face Spock. When he spoke, his voice was low, subdued and devoid of any hope.

"Must you go?"

Spock bowed his head.

"I do have family obligations, Jim. They are not of a kind I can neglect. I have rendered my family enough pain as it is," he paused, and Kirk caught the tiniest sigh that escaped him.

There was a moment of hesitation, while Spock apparently was trying to decide whether his explanation should stop there. But he knew, even if Kirk didn't yet, that this was probably the last time they saw each other.

The very last time.

What did it matter, if the confession made him appear weak and full of human flaws? Would the knowledge that he had retained his Vulcan dignity till the end be a comfort for him in his loss? This was the last conversation he would ever have with Jim. If it did not justify complete and total honesty, Spock did not know what did.

"Family obligations," Kirk muttered mechanically.

Doubts defeated, Spock sought his eyes and held them. Now was not the time for prevarication.

"Even if I had none of those, staying would not be a wise choice, Jim. I discovered I cannot control what is between us. I do not believe you can, either."

"No," Kirk shook his head softly. "Lord knows, I've tried."

"Then my leaving is the only logical solution."

Reluctantly, Kirk nodded. The conversation was completely surreal to him.

"When?"

"Tomorrow morning," Spock answered readily, startling Kirk. "Commissioner Sudak has offered me the use of his shuttle. We will reach Alpha Centauri in two days. And then..."

Kirk swallowed.

"I'll have your resignation forwarded by that time."

"Thank you, Captain."

There was nothing left to say, yet both stood immobile, staring deeply into each other's eyes. Deep inside, Kirk wished Spock would walk away sooner, so that there would be no need to maintain his own cool in front of him. But Spock seemed to have no willpower left, as if bringing them both to face this decision had drained him completely. Instinctively, totally unawares, Kirk moved closer, half a step, more a hint than a real change of position. Spock flinched, as if hit by an electrical jolt.

And then they were a whirlwind of motion.

Spock spun around abruptly, hand reaching for the railing, climbing two small steps as fast as he could, and not fast enough to evade the radiant presence moving on an intercept course at warp speed. He had almost reached the turbolift, when it caught him, swung around, pushed roughly against the wall near the Communications station. He was trapped, with all possible routes of escape firmly blocked. Had he ever thought he could overpower this human? Gathering every bit of control he had left, Spock made an effort to reason with this force of nature.

"Jim, please."

His captor didn't budge, only pressed him to the wall harder, as if trying to make him go through it. A flow of scarcely coherent thoughts rammed into his unshielded mind.

' _Can't let you go—what have I been thinking—to hell with it all—not on your life—can't—can't—can't—can't—ever—no!'_

There was nothing of the rational and intelligent starship captain in this desperate, tortured being, clinging onto him for dear life.

"Jim," Spock managed to free one hand and ran it blindly, but unerringly across the Communications console, hitting the right sequence of buttons. "I have signaled for Mr. Sulu's shift to return. They will be here any moment."

His words had no effect. Judging by the look in Kirk's eyes, the whole admiralty might have strode in at that very moment for all he cared. Impossibly, he drew even closer. Spock froze. Warm breath touched his lips.

His heart sank.

"Jim, if you do this, I will never go."

He almost groaned, realizing that what he had meant as a warning sounded more like a promise, but it was too late to take the words back. For a breathtaking moment, he thought Jim would not listen. For another one, he was mortally scared that Jim would. And just as the last bits of reason were ready to be extinguished out of his mind, the pressure was suddenly lifted.

He was free.

Seizing the chance that he knew would never come again, Spock slid into the opened cab of the lift blindly, letting it swallow him, not daring to throw a look back. Only when the doors were an inch from closing did he glance up, capturing a momentary image, which he knew he wouldn't ever be able to forget.

Kirk was standing with his back on him, his hands on the console, head bowed, shoulders slumped.

Alone on the empty Bridge of his ship.

Alone.

The doors closed.

Spock leaned against the wall, reeling, as the lift began its rapid descent. He could not think. What happened, what didn't, was too much for him to process immediately. He doubted sincerely that he would ever be able to. He doubted he even wanted to do so.

He tried to block the last image out of his mind. He didn't think he could endure seeing it for much longer. He had tried again and again, until he succeeded.

Almost.

He reached out and took control of the turbolift cabin, giving it detailed instructions on the fastest and most logical route that would carry him forever out of Jim Kirk's life.


	27. Flames to Dust

There was a very old saying that McCoy had once heard Chekov quoting, and at the moment, all he could think about was the utter truthfulness of these words.

 _Misfortunes never come alone._

He stood up from behind his desk and began to pace his quarters. His glance fell over the cabinet where he kept his stock of alcohol, but he dismissed the idea instantly. There was something wrong about considering a drink at seven thirty in the morning. Not to mention that he was on duty in half an hour.

And really, he didn't want a drink. Not unless it was one so big, he could drown in it. Literally.

He stopped pacing, staring into space.

How did it happen? Only yesterday, he had things to do, problems to solve, difficulties to overcome, plans to make. It was only hours ago. And now... what did he have now, except a bitter emptiness?

He looked at the padd, lying carelessly on his desk. He could still make out the title from where he was standing, despite the uncomfortable angle.

 _Educational Program for Medical Students_

 _Proposal for Starfleet Medical Academy_

 _Prepared by Leonard H. McCoy, M.D., Lt. Cmdr, Chief Medical Officer USS Enterprise_

Bitterly, McCoy shook his head. So many titles for one man.

He was seized by an absurd impulse to grab the padd and throw it into the nearest bulkhead. But that wasn't something a responsible man of his accomplishments was prone to do, was it?

No, it wasn't.

A responsible man of his accomplishments would pick up that stylus and correct the inscription until it was acceptable. Word by word. Just as Admiral Leland suggested he should.

 _Chief Medical Officer USS Enterprise_

This wouldn't be true for much longer anyway, would it? He glanced at the monitor where Spock's message was still open.

One down.

That was his first thought after he had finished reading it. One down, four hundred to go. One down...

He smirked humorlessly.

As a matter of fact, Spock's message was sweet. Not that it deviated from the stilted form of Vulcan official correspondence in the slightest, of course. But McCoy could read between the lines, and he knew his green-blooded nemesis too well. Translated into human, the note was practically touching, almost sentimental. Dry words didn't stop him from thinking reminiscently, 'Yes, you stubborn pointy-eared hobgoblin, I love you, too.'

He couldn't say that he wasn't affected by the news, but he had been expecting something like this for a while now. He wasn't oblivious to what was going on between the other two, he couldn't ignore the signs they had been transmitting. Jim's anger, Spock's pain. Their ups and downs, their rights and wrongs, he had been witness to every little twist in their reactions more times than he cared to count. He knew them both better than any other man presently alive. He loved them both dearly.

He couldn't help them.

He had always dreaded this day, when either one of them would be injured beyond his abilities to put them back together. Only, in his nightmares, the wounds were always physical.

He felt as helpless, as he had once before, standing guard at his father's bedside, his pain washing over him, eating at him slowly, like acid, driving him crazy with the sense of utter uselessness. There wasn't anything he could have done for David McCoy. A physician, he had no cure. There wasn't anything he could do for Jim and Spock now. A friend, he had no means.

They didn't hide anything from him. Never did. They couldn't at first, weren't smart enough later, and simply didn't bother in the end. They trusted him. How did that happen, he wondered vaguely. What had he done to earn this implicit trust? Was there a reason for it? Was he wise enough to use it for the best? Was there anything he could have done and didn't?

 _Was there?_

He had no answers. Just as it had been with his father, he had no answers. He could think of nothing but allowing them to face what was coming onto them on their own and hope for the best.

Spock said nothing specifically in his message, but its very tone, the exact date and the fact that he had left the ship already, were more than enough for McCoy to paint the full picture. He felt sad that this was the resolution the two of them had eventually chosen, but he couldn't blame them that much. Being in either of their shoes, he would have probably done the same thing.

It hurt anyway.

He didn't have all that many friends. It was difficult enough to lose them to some unfortunate accidents or incurable diseases, or whatever other disasters he could not prevent from happening. But to something like that...

One down.

The sheer sense of finality emanating from the message was making his mouth dry. It almost felt as if this was some secret signal they had been waiting for. To realize that it was over. All of it. The good, the bad. All over. Never to be repeated again.

Blast it all, anyway.

He used to detest living aboard a starship. He used to despise military décor, with its constant insistence on duty which always came first; with its disregard to everything which was essential to the human heart.

He used to. With such a perfectly fine line between love and hatred, surely, he can learn to hate it all again?

Letter by letter, he erased the name of the ship and his position. It felt strange, as if he were suddenly stripped naked. No ship insignia on his shirt, no responsibilities to carry out.

No sense of belonging.

He never fit in gracefully anywhere else.

 _Lt. Cmdr._

His rank was the easiest thing to let go of. He never planned on becoming an Admiral anyway. Five years ago, he had already been thinking about it. Not studiously, but the thought did occur every now and then. It was Jim who had convinced him not to resign his commission back then. It didn't seem right that Jim should also be the one to know first about his decision to do it now. Still, in an odd way, it was fair. He'd gone a full circle.

To hell with the uniform. If wearing it meant playing for the same team as Leland, he didn't want to have anything to do with it. For years, his superiors had been determined to get him out of it. Now, he was finally seeing their point.

They didn't belong on the same side. They never did.

People who put their ambition ahead of their own principles used to make him angry when he encountered them in Starfleet. Now, all he was feeling was profound, bottomless disappointment.

His educational program was an embodiment of Starfleet principles. They proclaimed the equality of all species, all races. He was giving them the means to make the proclamation become the everyday truth. What he was proposing was badly needed. So badly, in fact, it was becoming absolutely essential. His proposal was well-defined, measured, logical and doable. It was going to change the face of Starfleet, to change it in the way it should have been changed long ago.

'We will accept your program for immediate implementation,' Leland had told him. 'If you take your name off it.'

They were giving him everything. Not some stupid, unjustifiable five-year delay, no cutting the budget, no administrative additions. They were ready to accept it the way it was designed. They had, in fact, already started to pull up the necessary resources and key personnel. There was only this one small condition.

Leonard H. McCoy would have nothing to do with it.

Lord knew, he didn't have that much of an ego. But this was so blatantly unfair that it almost justified developing one. This was a major project for Starfleet Medical. Perhaps the most important project of the century, and he was its architect. He had spent years, sweating blood, carefully measuring up the stages, agonizing over details, researching the possibilities. He had earned the right to have his name on it.

The lack of acknowledgment, however, was not what had him on edge. Things like that happened to him before, though perhaps on a lesser scale.

But he was really looking forward to working on the implementation of the program. He was eager for that astronomical workload, which would have left him no time to think of his friends or to dwell upon the past. On all the roads not taken. If he had that tremendous responsibility, he wouldn't have time to think about it. The roads, or the loss.

And what a loss.

Unlike Jim, McCoy knew instantly that Spock was never coming back. He assumed Jim wasn't aware of it because Spock had been gone several hours and the ship was still in one piece. But the moment Jim would realize it, McCoy would lose him as well. The ship would be long gone by that time, the crew reassigned. There would be no other mission to bring them together, giving them time to work out their problems.

Never again.

This was one of the other reasons why his program was so important to him. It was some sort of guarantee that he wouldn't go insane. That he would still feel needed. That he would still be doing something right.

By making sure that he wouldn't come anywhere near it, Leland sought to deprive him of fame, never knowing that he didn't care for it. But by doing that, he did execute his revenge after all, striping McCoy of the only consolation prize he managed to procure.

His stylus came to the letters _M.D._ and stopped.

Ah.

They couldn't very well strip him of that now, could they? He was a physician. He would never cease to be one. Even being an old country doctor, he'd still be a doctor.

He suddenly laughed, rather bitterly.

Jocelyn was right, after all. It wasn't his destiny to set rivers on fire. To change the face of Starfleet, honestly... He meant to lead a revolution in those stiffed, grim bastions, which had long been in need of a thorough shake. But he was not a revolutionary, he was a doctor. Just a doctor. His purpose was to help people, not conquer the galaxy. Jocelyn was right, and her brother had finally made him admit it.

His eyes began to burn, and he shut them hurriedly.

If only he could talk to someone.

Spock—who'd have thought?—would have been his first choice. But Spock was gone. And he knew that right now Jim was in no condition to concentrate on someone else's problems. On anything, for that matter. It was unlikely Jim would even hear him.

How could it have come to this? He didn't even have anyone to turn to anymore.

He was alone.

His hand began to move again, working diligently, erasing letter by letter, until the whole line was innocently blank.

Just as his life was now.

 

 

\--

To say that Sulu was angry would have been a huge understatement. Anger didn't quite cover it, though it was probably the closest term. Another close one would have been keen disappointment. He couldn't quite come to grips with the news, and even less with their source. As he marched along the corridors of the _Enterprise_ , he tried to tune it down a little, assume at least some dignity. He was now acting First Officer, after all, however little the nominate title meant.

Having reached his destination, he pressed the buzzer almost vehemently, trying to smile at a passing crewmember at the same time. She raised her eyebrows, and walked past him faster than she had intended. Sulu dropped the smile, which obviously needed a lot of work, and pressed the buzzer harder, checking himself only just from pounding at the door.

"Enter," came finally from inside, and Sulu practically fell through the door.

Pavel Chekov looked at him gloomily from his sleeping area and nodded almost imperceptibly by means of a greeting. A grey standard issue suitcase was lying open on the bunk in front of him, and Chekov was clearly in the middle of filling it with his possessions. Sulu noticed the holocamera, safely incased in the holder, the small Federation banner that Chekov had usually displayed on the wall, rolled up carefully, and a stuffed tribble they never quite gotten to give Uhura as a gag birthday gift already inside.

For some reason, the tribble was simply too much. Was it because they had stuffed it together, and it had lived in Chekov's quarters simply because Sulu was prone to losing things? Or because they never quite got to give it to her? It belonged to both of them. At the very least, Chekov could have asked him.

"Packing?" Sulu half-snapped, half-barked at him.

Chekov glanced at him curtly before reaching for the next item.

"What does it look like?" he muttered.

"Like someone forgot to tell you that we won't be reaching Earth for another ten days at least."

Chekov shrugged, unperturbed.

"I know. I just don't like to waste time."

"So that's what you call it. Not wasting time."

Chekov spared him another glance.

"What are you talking about?"

"I know that you've signed up for Security training," Sulu blurted out, unable to keep it to himself any longer. "Uhura told me. I wonder were you going to tell me at all?"

Chekov folded another sweater meticulously and placed it carefully in the suitcase, before finally turning to give his visitor his full attention.

"Of course I was going to tell you. I just didn't have the time yet."

"I see," Sulu nodded, sounding irritated. "That explains it surely. Care to tell me why?"

"Commander Giotto thinks I have potential in Security."

"You told me that before. But I thought you wanted to sign up with me for Command School."

Chekov looked away, ostensibly in search of another object to pack, but more likely to avoid a confrontation.

"I changed my mind."

"Why?"

"I just did."

Sulu watched him picking up a book and staring at it as if he couldn't discern the title, then putting it back, and then picking it up again. He couldn't remember ever seeing Chekov in such dismay, and it gave him pause. Almost despite himself, he felt his anger dissipating, being replaced by a mild sense of alarm.

"Chekov," Sulu called onto him cautiously, "you never 'just do' anything. You've been telling me for three years now that you dreamed about becoming a starship captain half your life at least. Why change your mind now? You're not the type who acts on impulses coming out of the blue. What's this really about?"

For a while, Chekov remained with his back on him, fidgeting with the book in obvious indecision. Sulu's frown deepened. Trying to get personal information out of Chekov had always been distinctly reminiscent of pulling teeth, but this was aimed for the record. Finally, he left the book alone and turned around.

"You think the Keptin did the right thing?"

Instantly, Sulu knew what this was about. He asked anyway, "On Lericon?"

Chekov nodded grudgingly, watching him intently. The answer was obviously important for him. Too bad Sulu didn't have one on the ready.

"I don't know," he said honestly. He shrugged then, actually thinking about it for the first time. "Hell, of course he did the right thing. He's the Captain, it was his decision. You wouldn't want Mr. Spock to die, would you?"

"Of course not," Chekov shook his head. "But that's not the question."

"Then, what is?" Sulu asked, slightly put off. "He didn't go by the book? Well, you know the Captain. He rarely does."

"I know," Chekov said. "It's just that I can't help thinking..."

"What?"

"What if I were him? What if... if it were you there, not Spock?"

"Oh," Sulu let out, finally grasping the situation. "Yes. Well." His eyes wandered across the room, as if trying to stumble over an answer. When it didn't happen, he looked back at Chekov. "What would you have done?" he asked quietly.

Chekov folded his arms across his chest and sighed.

"I don't know. That's what's bugging me. I've been thinking about it ever since, and I've been asking myself this over and over again—and I still haven't got the slightest idea."

"You're afraid that you wouldn't have been able to choose duty over your friend's life?" Sulu probed carefully.

Chekov looked at him with a faint, uncertain smile.

"No, Sulu. I'm afraid that I could have."

With that, he turned back to his suitcase and started rearranging things he had already put inside.

Sulu was watching him warily, not trying to make conversation any more. The damned question was now haunting him, as if it were a virus and Chekov had been the carrier. All his life Sulu hated 'what ifs'. He wasn't a 'what if' kind of man, and Chekov's capacity for self-doubt and constantly questioning his resolve had always been beyond his comprehension. What was the purpose of these musings? The Captain had done what he had done when faced with the choice. If Sulu had been in his place, then he would have chosen... something.

Damn!

For a moment, he almost felt his anger at Chekov returning, though for a very different reason. But he knew his friend was simply caught up in this perfect loop. How long, Sulu wondered vaguely, how long would it take Chekov to come out of it? To resolve it somehow? Would he ever come to a solution that he could accept, that he could live with?

Sulu didn't know. He didn't even know if he would ever find one for himself. All he knew was that he sure as hell was going to try. And that Pavel Chekov wouldn't be with him in this particular life-changing journey.


	28. Dying to Live

Alpha Centauri Spaceport was usually a very busy place. It was the space gateway for the entire system, and the spaceship traffic had always been high. Millions of people came and went through the spaceport's various facilities every day, making a chance of meeting an acquaintance without an arrangement statistically impossible.

Yet Spock was feeling a familiar presence.

He was standing with Sudak at a huge plexiglass window while they waited for the boarding to their shuttle to start. The elder Vulcan gazed impassively at the spacefield, apparently taking observations of different spaceships' design. Spock's eyes were on the crowd.

He felt a presence.

Involuntarily, his heart had picked up the pace, and he had to control his respiration. This could not be. This could not be happening. Even considering the fact that there was perhaps no greater lie than statistics, his telepathy simply didn't work that way. He had to be in physical contact with a person to feel them that acutely.

But to deny the sensation was also illogical. He was a Vulcan. He was incapable of hallucinating.

The presence was growing steadier within his mind, making him wince slightly. There could be no doubt now. He had spent too much time in the mind of that human not to recognize it. In a way, he had known this mind better than his own. Definitely better than the one to whom it belonged did. There could be no mistake.

He felt a wave of dizziness overcoming him; the sound of voices had melted into a blur. Spock closed his eyes and concentrated on his feelings, trying to determine direction. Blindly, he reached out and touched Sudak's arm, drawing his attention. He didn't see, but felt the other's carefully tuned down astonishment.

"Heinrich Kramer is here," Spock said softly, knowing he had his companion's full attention. "In the crowd. He is armed."

A sensation of definite alarm from Sudak.

"We must notify the authorities," he began to pull away.

Spock's grasp on his arm tightened, as the younger Vulcan opened his eyes to look at him strictly.

"We _are_ the authorities."

"You are no longer a Starfleet officer, Spock."

"No. But you are still a Federal Commissioner."

It was obvious Sudak was not pleased with the reminder.

"Very well," he said, freeing himself from Spock's hold determinedly. "I shall notify Security and—"

"No," Spock cut him off, his focus turned inward, as if he was listening to a transmission coming from within his own chest. "He is not stable. People will be hurt. He would kill."

"Spock, we are not—"

"He's moving," Spock snapped flatly. "We must go."

And without waiting for an acknowledgement, he started forward, slicing the crowd like a knife. He felt vaguely Sudak's presence behind him, but all his senses were directed onward, following the invisible, but unbreakable link. They crossed the crowded hall of the fourteenth level and walked out into the transition area. Spock walked on confidently, with his eyes almost shut, resembling a torpedo locked on target. It wasn't exactly clear how while maintaining this speed—they were close to running—he didn't bump into anyone or anything. It was almost as if someone was clearing his way for him.

Sudak, who naturally couldn't see Kramer, managed to turn around on that almost run to try and locate some Security personnel, but none came in sight. This wasn't surprising. Alpha Centauri was as close to the heart of the Federation as possible; crime here was almost unimaginable. It was no wonder that the facilities were not overcrowded with Security guards.

They slipped into one of the corridors leading towards the spacefield. It was much darker here, and there was hardly anyone inside. Spock's pace quickened even more. There was some inexplicable sense of urgency growing within him. He was led entirely by his inner senses.

A turn. Another turn. A gangway. Climb up. Another corridor. Empty. Another one.

Sudak was saying something, but Spock couldn't hear him. He almost felt like he was a weight on a rubber-band, contracting to return to its point of origin. In the end, he ran. He knew Sudak would not leave him. Shari were not called the Guardians of Vulcan for no reason. Primarily, they were the guardians of the Vulcan way. But there was no possibility that a Shari would leave any member of the Twelve Families alone in danger. The ancient ways were too strong to allow for that.

Suddenly, it was all gone. The pull was lifted, the second sight removed. Spock looked around, blinking, as if coming out of a compelling dream.

Or, a nightmare.

They found themselves in a small cargo bay, seemingly unoccupied. Judging by the layer of dust on the containers, no one had been here for quite some time. Yet now they were definitely not alone.

"I'm glad you could make it, Spock," a familiar voice sounded somewhere ahead. "I wasn't sure if I could renew my hold on you."

"Kramer," Sudak breathed out, as the shadow formed some five meters in front of them.

"I see you brought a friend," Kramer noted. "How thoughtful of you, demon."

"I'm calling Security," Sudak made a decisive step towards the doors.

"Uh-uh-uh," Kramer forestalled him, drawing a hand disruptor out of his clothing. "Nobody's going anywhere."

"How did you find me?" Spock asked with calm determination. There was nothing he could do at the moment.

Kramer laughed softly.

"Did you really think that I would let you go?" he clipped his tongue reprovingly. "I am not in the habit of leaving the seeds of evil not eradicated."

"You put a mental marker on me," Spock realized, probing the imperfection within his mind which he hadn't noticed before. "I knew not."

"Of course you didn't, you were unconscious most of the time," Kramer looked at him almost pityingly. "Once activated, it brought you to me. To meet your destiny."

Spock was watching him coolly. In his report, he had stated that Kramer's Esper abilities superseded the highest known human rating by at least ten points. The assessment seemed shocking at the time. Now, Spock was beginning to wonder if he hadn't underestimated them by another ten points. It was clear that whatever enhancements Remans had put into him, none had gone to waste.

"My destiny?"

"You betrayed the human who put his trust in you," Kramer's voice became cutting, edgy. "I saw the connection within his mind—and yours. But you left him. And with him—the only hope you had for my forgiveness."

"Who are you to judge him?" Sudak stepped forward suddenly. "You know nothing of the way of our people. You are ignorant, like the rest of—"

"Silence!" Kramer roared, his hand shooting towards the elder Vulcan.

Sudak clutched his throat reflexively, gasping for air. Kramer clenched his palm into a fist and the Vulcan fell down to his knees, suffocating.

"Release him," Spock said urgently. "You wished to punish me, not him."

"Why should I spare the life of another demon?" Kramer intoned, watching Sudak with obvious pleasure. "But you are right, the time is precious."

Those were the last coherent words Spock had heard.

Kramer was moving toward him, and before the human, his hatred strode. Spock didn't bother to raise his shields. They were no match for what was thrown at him. The chaotic sphere of wild emotions, each wave bringing more disorder and turmoil. He could hear vaguely Sudak moaning at his feet, hit by the shockwaves.

Hatred, anger, jealousy, malice washed over him, making him tremble. They penetrated his mind, but they didn't linger on there. Were all the years of his exposure to human and alien emotions to blame? Or was it some core basic instinct of the Vulcan race, engraved deep within his being? Spock didn't know, but whatever it was it helped him find the only possible solution.

With enormous effort, he ceased all resistance, opening himself completely instead. He turned himself into a conduit. Accepting everything and holding at nothing. He could sense Kramer's rage over the ineffectiveness of his attack, could feel him concentrating harder, giving himself fully to the task. The human never noticed another figure rising behind him, reaching for his neck...

Snapping it.

Three bodies slumped hard onto the cold floor. One dead, one dying and one struggling for his life.

How long a time had passed before Spock knew his bearings again, he couldn't tell. He straightened up with difficulty and looked around, as if after a year-long sleep.

Kramer's body was long cold and stiff. Spock couldn't help the tiny sigh of relief escaping him. It was really over now. And he was still sane.

Then he noticed Sudak. The Shari was half-lying, leaning against the bulkhead. His breathing was hard and ragged, his eyes half-closed, lips moving slightly.

His whole body aching mercilessly, Spock made himself rise and walk over to kneel at Sudak's side. Apparently sensing his presence, the elder Vulcan turned to him and focused with difficulty.

"Spock."

"I will summon help," Spock said quickly, making a move to rise, wishing he still had his communicator.

Sudak's hand on his forearm stopped him.

"No need. You know I have minutes to live. It would be illogical."

Reluctantly, Spock nodded. He sensed the life energy slipping away from his companion and instinctively he knew that nothing could be done. Sudak was not dying from physical injury. The damage to his body could have been repaired. But his mind was beyond salvation.

"Spock," Sudak's breath caught again, as he struggled to get the words out.

"Do not speak," Spock told him. "It will make your condition worse."

"It is of no consequence," the voice was ragged, but the gaze locked on Spock's face was steady. "You must know, Spock. I was wrong about you."

"Wrong how?"

"Your control is better than I thought. Perhaps than you thought, too. In fact, your control is better than mine. That is why he," his chin pointed towards Kramer, "could not kill you."

"It is of no importance," Spock replied tightly.

"On the contrary, it is. I believed you forced yourself on the human. I was in error. What you had was not one-sided. Your human might not have understood, but he had wished it. You both had. All was as it should be. It was not my place to interfere. Spock," he propped himself up with difficulty and looked the younger Vulcan in the eye intently. "It is not too late to go back. Shari Tcha'kla will understand. It is not too late."

His body went suddenly very tense, as if caught by a seizure, and then he fell back heavily and moved no more. His death stabbed Spock like a dagger, making him jerk back under a shockwave. He leaned on the bulkhead, enervated, and closed his eyes.

He had known it.

The moment he had first realized what was happening between him and Jim made him feel the deepest fear he had ever experienced. Fear that he was the one responsible for it. That because of him, Jim became a subject to mortal peril. So strong was that fear, that it had effectively prevented him from analyzing the situation. He had called Jim his shield-brother, yet he had forgotten the simplest fact about this form of relationship.

One does not become t'hy'la unwillingly.

Ever.

Such was not the nature of this kind of bond. Mutual consent was not obligatory for a number of other connections, for a matrimonial bond, for instance. But for this one, it was. More than consent, in fact. Both parties must not only be willing, but active participants. The bond existed between him and Jim. If he removed his blocks around it, he would feel it even now. The bond existed.

 _Oh, Jim..._

Spock pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose determinedly, as if trying to extinguish the pain.

 _What have I done to you, t'hy'la? To both of us?_

He had known. Of course, he had known. Not consciously, but on some deep level he had known it all along. From the moment he had asked, 'Why are you here?' and Jim answered, 'Because you need me,' he had known. It was true, he needed Jim. But he didn't summon him. Jim came on his own will. He had a choice and he made one. Freely. Spock had had nothing to do with his decision.

 _It is not too late to go back._

Spock opened his eyes and stared in front of him at the opposite bulkhead.

Sudak had obviously tried to rectify some of the supposed damage he had done. But he did not understand. Or perhaps he had underestimated Spock again. He thought he was the cause of the rift. In truth, the Shari was merely a measuring indicator in a chemical reaction. Nothing more. Spock's decision to leave was not induced by anyone. He had arrived to it independently and he had even made Jim see his point.

And Jim let him go.

And that perhaps was the most responsible action either of them had taken since a very long time.

 _When you have no control, the least you can do is acknowledge it._

That was one of the first lessons that Sarek had taught him, but it was only now that Spock came to realize in full what it meant. Many years ago, when the conversation had taken place, he had only looked at his father in confusion. To his surprise, Sarek presented him with a book instead of answering. What was even more intriguing, the book was written by a human author, the great poet of old Earth, William Shakespeare.

Many years later, Spock had acquired a great respect for his works, but the first one he had read had remained as much a puzzle for him, as it had been when he was seven.

' _This story is completely illogical,' he declared, laying the book on the kitchen table._

 _Amanda looked at the cover and then glanced at Sarek questionably._

' _Whatever gave you the idea that Spock is old enough to read 'Romeo and Juliet'?'_

 _Sarek was watching Spock intently._

' _I shall be the judge of the rate his education should progress, my wife. Spock. Why do you think the story is illogical?'_

' _There is no logic in killing oneself. Both those humans acted irrationally. They committed suicide when they had a number of other options.'_

' _Why do you think they killed themselves?'_

 _Spock took a moment to consider this, but was forced to shake his head._

' _I did not understand this.'_

 _Sarek nodded slowly, as if expecting this answer, and turned to Amanda._

' _Perhaps your mother could explain it better.'_

 _Amanda looked pensive for a moment._

' _Well... They loved each other. I know, I know, love is illogical, but they were humans, not Vulcans. They loved each other so much that they could not bear a thought of living in the world when the other one had died.'_

' _But,' Spock couldn't grasp it, 'had they waited, each of them, for just a little longer, they would have known that their lover lived. There would have been no need to die. Killing oneself is not difficult at any time. To wait would have been only reasonable.'_

' _Yes, but you see, they couldn't wait. Their feelings were too strong, they overwhelmed them,' she glanced at Sarek again, realizing the point he was trying to make. She looked back at her confused son. 'Humans can control their emotions, too, Spock. But Romeo and Juliet were very young. They had no experience that could have helped them deal with emotions of that magnitude. Their feelings were controlling them, not the other way around. You know,' she sighed and shook her head with a soft smile, 'I've always wondered what would have happened if their families had succeeded in separating them, and they had met again later in their lives.'_

 _The discussion of emotions was alien to him and distinctly uncomfortable, but Spock struggled to get his mother's meaning._

' _They would not be in love anymore?'_

' _Oh, no, I think they would have been. Love is a bit like wine, Spock, it gets more mature with time,' she shot a quick look at Sarek and smiled. 'More potent. But, with age, there also comes experience and the ability to recognize that which drives you.'_

' _You control it better?'_

' _Not necessarily,' she laughed. 'But at least you do know what is happening. You are cognizant of your own actions. And you have the power to either seize control over them or let go.'_

 _Spock frowned, considering this._

' _Letting go appears to be excessively dangerous.'_

' _Indeed,' Amanda laughed again. 'But sometimes it's worth it.'_

' _And sometimes it kills,' Sarek said. 'There will be many situations in your life over which you will have no control, Spock. Be careful to recognize them. Control, once you master it, gives one a semblance of being safe. That is an aberration. It is essential not to delude yourself. If you cannot control your reactions, admit it. It is the first step in regaining control.'_

' _Do not be concerned, Father,' Spock pronounced, tilting his chin up determinedly. 'Once I master the discipline of control, I shall never lose it.'_

 _His parents exchanged a glance over his head._

' _That,' Sarek said gravely while Amanda smiled, 'is something I have never accomplished.'_

Indeed, Spock reflected with a twinge of irony. The arrogance of youth.

He could go back. The idea was unmercifully tempting. To talk to Jim again, to explain, to apologize. To ask forgiveness for all the errors he had made, for all the pain he had caused.

But where would that leave them?

In chaos, he answered honestly. In a maelstrom of emotions, too strong for either of them, or both of them together for that matter, to master. Spock did not believe in any kind of deity, but the universe itself had been kind to him, it would seem. It gave him the chance to rectify the mistake they had made by letting Kramer go.

The error had been corrected, but Sudak had to die for it.

An innocent had died because of them.

If he went back, this would sooner or later happen again. Rather sooner, given their occupation. For how long would they be able to cope with guilt? It would tear them apart eventually, and considering the scale of their involvement, they were unlikely to preserve their sanity were this to happen.

All of a sudden, Gol seemed to receive a whole new meaning.

The monastery had its reputation for a reason. Spock would be able to achieve a new level of discipline and order there. And with him gone, Jim would bounce back after a while. He would be in pain for some time, though. Maybe even for a long time, but eventually he would get over it. Without Spock, he would be able to live a long and eventful life. He would remain a highly efficient officer. He would find his happiness with someone else one day. And after completing the Kolinahr, Spock would regain full control over his life, too.

It appeared to be a reasonable, logical and the only possible solution.

And if his vision was blackened dead at the thought of never seeing Jim again, it was of no consequence.

Of no consequence at all.

 

 

\--

Jim Kirk walked out of the Starfleet Headquarters main building into the glorious sunny day. The breeze from the bay was a little fresh, but Kirk had found it pleasing. After spending the better part of his morning in some closed up dark conference rooms, the change was most welcome.

He didn't have any particular destination. All he wanted was to place some distance between himself and the building he had just left. He needed to clear his head a little.

These two weeks on Earth had passed in a strange blur. He could give a detailed description of his activities, but at the same time he felt as if it was someone else taking part in them, not him. He was merely an observer. But now it seemed like a decision was being pressed upon him, making him come out of his oblivion.

For about four weeks now, he had lived in a state of numb torpor. Nothing could penetrate this veil thrown over his senses. Beneath it, he was reverting more and more into his inner self, seeking shelter from the outside world.

Events registered, but didn't sink in, no matter how closely they concerned him.

Two days ago, the _Enterprise_ was officially declared an unassigned vessel. Kirk had completed all paperwork diligently, stepping down as her captain. But he wasn't there when she was hauled to the orbital spacedocks. Scotty had been there, Kirk knew it. Some of the others, too. Uhura. Sulu.

He didn't go.

He knew they had all thought that it would have been too painful for him to say goodbye to his ship, but the truth was he didn't care and didn't want anyone to realize that. They would have been offended in their best feelings, and he preferred to skip the event all together.

He was a little surprised at himself. After all, he had considered his ship to be an essential part of him. He had always believed that when this moment would come, he would be crushed, devastated by the loss of it. But all he felt was a pang of nostalgia, which didn't last very long.

He felt numb.

Once, when he was a very young and a very promising Ensign, his ship was caught in the war zone. They were forced to abandon ship, and landed on a moon, which only had one small and understaffed defense installation. The Klingons had tried to seize it, and a ruthless battle had ensued. His squad leader had been killed when the victory had been nearly at hand. There was only one other survivor in the squad, another Ensign. The Lieutenant's death had sent him into overload. Kirk had already shot the Klingon who had killed her, but it didn't stop the Ensign from attacking him.

Attacking the body.

He beat the immobile form mercilessly, then pulled out his knife and began to stab it. By the time Kirk and another Lieutenant got to him, the body was mutilated. Vividly, Kirk remembered looking in the dead face. It wore a happy sneer of a berserker killed on his way to Valhalla—the same expression it had assumed at the moment of death. The human who had lost his head could have done anything at all with his fallen enemy, but he couldn't hurt him.

Beyond death, there was no pain.

There were mornings when Kirk had asked himself if he had become that Klingon. Things that were happening to him now were leaving deep wounds and should have sent him into endless agony. Instead, he felt nothing.

It was unbearably ironic at times.

When Spock had handed him his resignation, Kirk couldn't shut up. He couldn't shut up to save his life. When Bones came to him several days later in pretty much the same manner, he couldn't utter a word. He stared in his old friend's face and prayed for the words to come, but they didn't. He could tell McCoy was expecting him to say something, maybe even do something.

He couldn't.

It was almost as if he were split in two persons again. One was screaming desperately that he was losing his friend, perhaps the only real friend he had left. The other one could only say, 'I know,' and do nothing. The overwhelming guilt he had felt after McCoy was gone was the last real feeling that had touched him. Ever since, he felt nothing more than a dead corpse would.

He came to a stop at the railing, watching seagulls up in the sky.

It wasn't until they had offered him the command of another starship that he realized he had been wrong. He had never been this wrong about anything in his life, as he was about that one most important thing.

He went aboard—why wouldn't he? She was a fine ship, and he was a born captain. Commanding a starship used to be his first best destiny.

The realization caught up with him when he stepped on the Bridge. As his gaze slid over various stations, manned by unnamed, unfamiliar people, he experienced a sudden stroke of claustrophobia. He needed to get out of there and he needed to do it fast. He remembered the surprised and alarmed look on the face of the First Officer, who had been conducting the tour. He couldn't recall what kind of excuse he had thrown at the man before virtually warping out of there.

He didn't want another starship.

Not if it wasn't his own. Not if he couldn't have his crew back. Not if he couldn't have that one man at his side who truly belonged there.

This was the kind of totally unprofessional attitude which he had never expected himself to be capable of. It also was the only undeniable truth. It didn't matter if he could get the best ship in the fleet under his command. It didn't matter if he were made fleet captain or the supreme ruler of the universe.

He would still be alone.

How could he have been so stupid? He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, fighting an upsurge of nausea.

 _My God, Spock, what have I done? To you, to us? How could I have been so blind?_

Indeed, whom gods wish to destroy, they first make insane.

What else but insanity could explain what he had said to Spock during their last conversation? He had been so completely blindfolded, he hadn't even realized it was the very last one. The shallow words he had summoned, the pathetic gestures...

The loss of control.

This was something that had never happened to him to this extent in his entire life, and even that failed to make him see the truth. Blind, blind indeed, three times more blind than a real blind man.

Spock was right to walk away on him. Spock, who had offered him, quite bluntly, his life on a platter. Spock, who had never once recoiled from him, no matter how hard slapped. Spock, whose unwavering loyalty and all-encompassing forgiveness could only have one explanation, one ground, one reason.

Spock deserved better.

Letting him go was perhaps the only thing Kirk had ever done right with him. It was a small consolation, but a consolation nonetheless, that he was finally able to summon enough responsibility and integrity to discharge his selfish impulses and let Spock go. That was the only true gift he had ever given his friend.

He was not going to take it back, no matter how hollow his life would be without Spock.

He now had a choice to make. If he refused the command of another starship now, he would never get another chance. Nogura was dying to bind him to a desk. He had only offered Kirk another command because he had no choice. If Kirk didn't take it, if he accepted promotion instead, he would never set foot aboard a starship as captain again.

Kirk frowned, watching the waves.

It seemed unimaginable now, but there might come a time in the future when he would wish to relive the joy of commanding a mission. If that time would ever come, he would regret this day and his decision. But he could not envision this regret to be anything as devastating as what he felt when he had walked into that Bridge and no one he knew had been with him.

He felt like he had betrayed them all in a way. Those last two weeks of the mission, he carried out his duties, he said the right words and took correct actions. God help him, he even laughed and made jokes. But he wasn't even there when he did it. He wasn't really there for any of them. He didn't think he could be anymore.

He must refuse another command now. The crew, any crew, needed their captain to be their leader, strong, confident, with as fine a measure of self-integrity as one could get. He was no longer the embodiment of these qualities. There were nights when he wasn't sure he would live to see the dawn.

There were nights when he wished he wouldn't.

His experience told him he would live. Even now, he could maintain his image most of the time in front of the others. He would have to learn to do it full time, that was all. The day would come when this mask would become an integrated part of him and would require no additional effort to project. Until that day, he would simply have to pull through.

Reluctantly, as if the wind was urging him on, he resumed his slow walk.

Someday, he would find Bones and beg for his forgiveness. Someday, he would become interested in strategic operations once again. Someday, he would be able to take care of the people who trusted him with their lives.

Someday, he would stop falling to pieces every time someone would say Spock's name.

That last part was the key. His mind believed in this, his heart didn't. He would have to work on his balance somehow. According to Spock, mind should prevail over heart at all times. Spock's mind did win in the end... after letting his heart show.

It wasn't fair, Kirk thought countless times. It wasn't fair. It wasn't very Vulcan.

But it was all Spock.

Kirk shook his head, trying to rid his mind of thought. No Spock, no Bones, no _Enterprise_. This was the life he had made for himself, with his own hands. Now, he had to live it. There was one redeeming quality to it, after all.

He had nothing left to lose.

He was now invincible.

And laughing softly in celebration, James Kirk had started his long lonely way down the street.


	29. Epilogue

**_Present time_ **

**  
**

The soft sound of running water echoed gingerly in the ancient walls. This small inner yard was perhaps the most open part of the monastery. While backed up from one side with a high wall, repelling the sunlight, from the other it was facing only the abyss; a large, deep pit, separating Gol from the distant mountains. Every morning, one of the adepts descended the old, crumpled steps and gathered water from the springs in several heavy, ceramic jars to provide for the needs of the rest. Sometimes, when for some reason water supplies ran out more quickly, two adepts were sent out to do the chore, in order to compensate for such an occurrence.

As had happened this morning.

Having deposited six big, heavy jars on the ground to be filled, two Vulcans had come to stand side by side at the brink of the chasm, watching the dark clouds gathering over the mountain tops. The Kolinahru rarely spoke to each other, but this time, one of them broke the routine.

"An electrical storm. This is peculiar. It is not yet the season."

Wind was tugging at their robes, and the other adept leaned his head back slightly, making his hood slide off to his shoulders.

"It is not going to be an electrical storm," Spock said, watching the clouds draw nearer. "I sense water in the air. It is going to rain."

His companion's amazement was so deep that he turned to look at Spock directly.

"There hasn't been a thunderstorm in these mountains for the last ninety-seven years."

"Nevertheless," Spock maintained, unperturbed. "It is going to rain."

"How can you be so certain?"

Spock looked at the distant blurry line where the earth was meeting the sky, and for a moment, his gaze slid deeper, past the boundaries of the event horizon, further and further on across light years and star systems. And the answer to the question came easy, and it made perfect sense.

"It's raining in San Francisco."

His companion was long gone, but Spock remained on the cliff, face to face with the advancing storm, until the first heavy, rich drops of precious water began to fall onto the terracotta dust at his feet.

 **The End**


End file.
